Close, But No Cigar
by Nutterfly
Summary: Sam Leaps into Oklahoma City on the day the Federal Building is bombed...but if a missing woman wasn't in the building, can Sam find her?
1. Chapter 1

**Close, But No Cigar**

CHAPTER 1

Sam Beckett sensed the electricity coursing through his body and knew he was Leaping. Slowly the real world appeared to coalesce around him though he understood that he was the one taking form in this reality, whatever it was this time. He'd been through this enough times now that he knew to stand still and wait until the process was complete – and hope he wasn't Leaping into a moving target.

Sam found himself seated behind an expensive teak desk which was covered with an assortment of legal documents, notes scrawled on pieces of lined yellow paper, and thick books opened to some hopefully relevant page. Hastily he looked up; experience had taught him that surely someone would be sitting on the other side of that huge desk, patiently waiting for him to answer their question. He was alone. "There's nothing going on at the moment," he said to himself. "Maybe this will be an easy Leap."

He thought to glance down at himself to determine his current gender and saw he was wearing an expensive navy-blue suit with a visible triangle of pinstriped dress shirt. From the style of the suit he concluded he was in an era in which a woman might well adopt male dress codes to further an appearance of competition, power and importance. He pushed his chair backwards a bit so he could see his footwear – they were soft black loafers, thankfully men's shoes.

Sam took the opportunity to survey his surroundings in an attempt to glean as much information as possible about his new persona before someone walked through the door and he had to interact with them. The office he occupied was well-appointed, fairly reeking of money. The walls were covered with wood paneling, the carpet was dark green. In front of the desk sat two wingback chairs, dark wood frames upholstered in brown leather with brass nail-head trim outlining the edges of the arms and back. The leather was worn just enough to look comfortable.

The men's club look was furthered by a matching large brown-leather couch placed against the wall to his right. A coffee table of dark wood and sleek lines sat in front of the couch, displaying half a dozen magazines laid out in a precise fan shape and a brass planter containing a healthy specimen of Boston fern. A small table right of the couch supported a brass urn that had been made into a lamp, while a tall potted ficus took up the other corner.

Along the wall in front of him Sam saw a round table surrounded by four straight-backed chairs, all solidly constructed of heavy dark wood. At the edge of the table nearest the wall sat a unique lamp; its base appeared to be carved from an old tree branch into the shape of an eagle with wings spread wide, the artist having taken advantage of the natural shape of the wood. A stack of note-pads and pens were piled neatly next to the lamp, available if needed. Smaller plants in brass pots flanked the setting. The wall above was graced by a large heavy-framed painting of a mountain scene; a high cliff in shades of ochre and amber towered over a dark green valley while the sky above was done in blue and mauve. The whole picture had a dark quality, though Sam couldn't tell if it was meant to look gloomy or aged.

Sam swung his gaze on around the room, noting the open office door in passing. The wall to his left was covered with lawyer's bookshelves. The glass fronts of the nearest reflected the bright sunlight streaming through the windows behind him, but he could see that the rest of the shelves were crammed full of heavy tomes. Various Western-themed bronze statues rested atop the bookcase: an Indian warrior astride a horse, both with heads bowed seemingly in defeat; a bucking bronco; another eagle; and a bust of a man with a friendly face and large features, his hat pushed far back on his head to show a slash of choppy bangs. From somewhere in the depths of Sam's memory came the name Will Rogers. Pride of place was given to an autographed red and white football, bearing the logo of the University of Oklahoma. There was also a humidor full of cigars. Sam chuckled, thinking that Al would doubtless bemoan the fact that he wouldn't be able to smoke them, which was just as well in Sam's opinion.

He stood up and crossed the thick carpet to get a better look at the name plate on the door. "Joseph P. Smithfield, Esq." it read. "Oh, Boy!" Sam said. "I'm a lawyer again." He took a moment to reflect on the past, thinking about the two previous times he'd Leaped into lawyers; in both cases he'd been a defense attorney.

He looked through the open door into the reception area beyond and puzzled out the backwards writing on the all-glass front door. The black-rimmed gold-leaf letters spelled out "Dancey, Parsons, Stanton, and Waters" with "Corporate Law" below the name. "Whew!" Sam said to himself. "At least this time I won't have to argue a case before judge and jury."

He turned and walked back toward the desk, looking out the large expanse of windows that spanned the back of the room. There was a low wall below them, constructed so that the windows were flush with the outer edge of the building leaving a 6-inch ledge inside. Sam could see vertical metal strips that must hold the large panes of glass in place without unduly obstructing the view. Vertical blinds had been pushed into each corner; their wood tone matched the walls. As he approached he faltered for a moment as he realized this office was 15 or 20 stories up in the building. His fear of heights set his heart to pounding; he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, telling himself firmly that he was safe and wouldn't fall. He opened his eyes again and cautiously approached the window, touching the narrow ledge with both hands to assure himself of safety.

Smithfield's office appeared to be in a building amongst many others, although none of the nearer ones were as tall. Directly across the street Sam could see a buff-colored building whose rooftop was covered with cars, the sunlight glinting off all the chrome and glass; evidently a parking garage. In the near distance he could see the steeple of a church, probably built years ago before the business area expanded from the look of its architecture. "I must be downtown in some good-sized city," he muttered to himself. "But I don't recognize the skyline. Looks like a nice place; mostly modern buildings with a few well-kept older ones, clean and not crowded, and I like the trees planted along the edge of the sidewalk." In fact, he noticed that there were few people walking along those sidewalks nor were there many cars on the street. Whatever city it was looked quiet and tranquil.

It was a beautiful day outside. From the direction of the shadows Sam could tell the sun was to his right, but that didn't tell him whether he was facing north or south. Absorbed in his thoughts he forgot about the precipitous drop in front of him as he raised his arms to push back the sleeve of his jacket and check his wristwatch. It was just after 9:00 AM, 9:01 to be exact.

Behind him Sam heard the familiar hollow grating sound of the Imaging Chamber door opening. Before it had fully opened he heard Al yell, "Sam, get down! Get away from the window and hit the deck!"

Sam turned to see Al outlined by a rectangle of bright white light. It was obvious Al hadn't taken time to dress before appearing as he was wearing a white robe with rows of black dots and lines over red satin pajamas. Instead of punching the 'close' button on the handlink he was waving his arms wildly, leaving a complicated trail of smoke from the cigar in his right hand. Sam gave him a confused look, instinctively trusting his advice but uncertain of the reason.

"Sa-am, get over here right now." Al used his cigar to point to the floor in front of the desk. "It's time to duck and cover!"

Sam took three quick strides to the appointed spot, dropped to his knees and curled up with his hands over his head. He had the sudden feeling he should be wearing a gas-mask and lead-lined poncho (though he couldn't quite think why) and he expected to hear the rising wail of a siren at any second. However the room remained so quiet that he could clearly hear the sudden airflow as the air conditioning kicked on. He turned his head slightly to his right to look up at Al through the V of his bent arm. "Why am I doing this, Al?" he hissed.

"You're in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma," Al said tensely. "It's 9:02 AM on Wednesday, April 19, 1995 and…"

Suddenly the quiet, peaceful day was shattered by an almost unbearably loud noise, a deep boom that had an odd hollow quality to it. Sam thought it sounded like a gigantic trash dumpster had been dropped from the sky above onto the street below. He could hear the echoes rippling down the city streets as the sound hammered against the surrounding buildings in its effort to expand. He pulled his body more tightly into the fetal position and waited, not knowing what to expect.

For the next few moments the sound waves continued to roll past the building, gradually diminishing in volume. Peace and quiet returned once more. Sam dared to relax enough to once again look up as if asking if it were safe to come out of hiding now. What he saw wasn't at all reassuring. Al was standing in the middle of the office floor but he appeared to be rocking from side to side like a bowling pin that hadn't been hit hard enough to fall and would eventually settle back on its base.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then took another look at the situation. His brain did a mental twist and this time he clearly saw that Al was standing still while the walls of the room were moving; Al appeared to repeatedly lean into and away from the open doorway. Sam stared in shock, unable to look away as he realized that the entire tall building must be swaying back and forth. Now that he knew what was happening he could feel the movement and stayed where he was on the floor.

"What just happened here, Al?" he asked.

In the reception area beyond the office a man pulled open the front door and stuck his head inside long enough to yell, "It's the Federal Courthouse, it's been bombed!" before backing out again and running down the hall.

"No, it's not, Sam," Al said, shaking his head gravely. "It's the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building."

The name meant absolutely nothing to Sam, and he shrugged his shoulders to signify his lack of comprehension. "I don't remember," he said.

Al made a gesture indicating Sam should stand up. "It's OK now Sam, the danger to this building has passed. I'm sorry about all the shouting, but by the time Ziggy realized where and _when_ you were she didn't have time to check on the damage to this particular office. There was a lot of flying glass all over downtown Oklahoma City and it was quicker to just have you take cover."

"This building is…" Al raised the handlink to consult the display. "Lead. It's not made of lead, it's a glass building." He shook the handlink and peered more closely at its screen. "Oh! Leadership Square. You're on the 17th floor, and it's three blocks south of the Murrah Building."

Sam had gotten to his feet but just stood there, looking blank and feeling tense. Something truly horrible had just happened. He wanted to take action, to run outside and _do_ something, but he needed to know more before he could help anyone effectively. "I Leaped in here just in time to feel the building do a Hula dance under me while I'm curled up on the floor like a baby. I haven't had a chance for my Swiss cheese memory to catch up and you're giving me times and names that obviously mean something, except I don't know what it is."

"I'm sorry, Sam," Al said quietly. He pointed at the windows as if that would explain everything.

Sam walked up to the windows and looked down at the street, unconsciously gripping the ledge for mental support. Nothing seemed to have changed. The sun was still shining cheerfully, a young woman was walking down the sidewalk across the street, and a short line of cars pulled forward as the traffic light turned green. Given what he'd just experienced, there was a surreal quality to the oh-so-normal scene.

He raised his head to look further into the distance and saw a rising cloud of dust just beyond and to the right of the church he'd noticed earlier. Staring out the window beside him, Al explained. "You don't remember because you never heard the news reports, Sam. In 1995 you'd just started Leaping and you were stuck in the past. The Committee voted _not_ to tell you because you had enough to deal with as it was." Sam accepted the decision with a nod of his head, his attention still riveted on the view out the window.

"The Federal Building in Oklahoma City was built in 1977 and named after federal judge and Oklahoma native Alfred P. Murrah," Al explained as he punched buttons on the handlink to retrieve the data. "Its nine floors housed regional offices of a bunch of government agencies. It's like alphabet soup, Sam. The SSA, FBI, DEA, and BATF. There were Army and Marine recruiting offices, the Federal Employees Credit Union and…"

Sam turned his head to look at Al, knowing he had something even worse to say. He nodded slightly, indicating both that he was ready to hear and that he understood that Al really didn't want to have to say it.

"There was a daycare center on the second floor, Sam. A daycare full of kids. The bastard bombed _kids_." Al's voice was choked with emotion.

"Bombed?" Sam asked as if he didn't understand the word.

"What you just heard was the detonation of a bomb made of 5,000 pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, nitro methane, and diesel fuel. It was placed inside a Ryder rental truck that was parked on the street north of the building. The blast destroyed a third of the Murrah Building, caused severe damage to many of the nearby buildings, and blew glass out all over the area."

"I didn't just _hear_ it, Al," Sam said. "I _felt_ it. I thought I was in an earthquake, except you said this is Oklahoma and not California. I felt the building _move_. They don't have earthquakes in Oklahoma, do they?"

"No, just tornadoes," Al replied as if that were reassuring. "People reported hearing the blast as far away as 55 miles, and the seismometer at the University of Oklahoma in Norman 16 miles away from here measured it at 3.0 on the Richter scale," Al read from the handlink.

"What kind of person would do such a horrible thing?" Sam asked.

"Fellow by the name of Timothy McVeigh," Al replied. "It seems he didn't agree with the way the federal government handled Ruby Ridge in '92 or the siege at Waco, Texas in '93. In fact he set this bomb off on the second anniversary of the Waco incident."

"They know who did it? Do they know why? What kind of man could blow up a building full of innocent people?" Sam asked in horror. "He's not one of those bigoted racists, like the guys when I Leaped into the Ku Klux Klan," he said in a disgusted tone of voice. Having thought of it he suddenly remembered all too vividly the hatred and arrogance those men had shown in bombing a church.

"No, he didn't seem to be a white supremacist. But he hated everything our government stands for; he thought they were taking away all our freedoms so he took action." Al consulted the handlink again to get the details.

"He and Terry Nichols were convicted of the bombing. McVeigh was executed on June 11, 2001 and Nichols is still in federal prison," he reported. "It reminds me of the Kennedy assassination all over again. There was a lot of suspicion that it was a conspiracy, that Middle Eastern terrorists were involved, but that was never proved. McVeigh went to his death swearing it was his own idea."

"Al, please don't tell me I'm here to uncover the conspiracy," Sam said warningly.

"Nah, Ziggy only gives that a 3% chance," Al said firmly.

"Well I'm certainly not here to stop the bomb…God, Al, how many people were killed?"

"The official count was 168; and there was a leg that was never identified. 19 of them were children." Al was trying to maintain a neutral attitude to lessen the impact of that statement, but his voice was tight nevertheless.

"Why didn't I Leap in sooner?" Sam wailed. "I could've stopped the bomber, or warned the people in that building, or…" He stopped talking, overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation, heartsick at the loss of life, and thoroughly frustrated at his inability to have prevented any of it. "I could've saved them. Why didn't I get here sooner?" he asked in anguish.

"I don't know, Sam," Al said quietly. "I guess that just wasn't meant to be."

"But _why_?" Sam asked, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Maybe I couldn't have stopped him. Or, or maybe I couldn't have saved _everybody_, but I could've saved _some_ of them. You said the daycare was on the second floor, if I'd just had a few more minutes' warning I could've at least saved those children."

Al shook his head gravely. "I'm sorry, Sam. I got here just as soon as I could. I didn't even take time to get dressed!" He gestured at his attire to add visual emphasis to his words. "God or Fate or Time or Whatever seems to have something else in mind for this Leap. I wish you could've stopped it, too. This was the worst terrorist attack on American soil until September 11."

"September 11?" Sam asked, perplexed. "What happens on September 11?"

"Uh, don't worry about that now, Sam," Al said, having realized too late that was another horror story Sam knew nothing about. "It's, uh…it's a long story and we need to figure out why you're here." He shook his head sadly and said again, "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

Sam sighed, thus releasing some of his tension. "It's OK, Al," he said. "I was only here a couple of minutes before you showed up, it's not your fault." He flung out a hand towards Al, fingers outspread, as if to indicate the whole situation. "It's just that I feel so _helpless_. If I'd had just a _little_ more time I could've _done_ something. Five minutes. If I'd gotten here just five minutes earlier I could've helped."

"There wasn't anything you could've done," Al said firmly. "If you'd run into the daycare screaming that a lunatic had parked a truckful of explosives outside they'd have thought you were the crazy one. And if you'd tried to move the truck you'd have been blown to bits."

"Then what am I here for, if it wasn't to stop the bombing?" Sam asked in frustration.

"Ziggy doesn't know," Al replied. "She hasn't had time to sort through the rest of the day's history yet. The news media was so understandably focused on the bombing that it's a little hard to tell what else happened today. The guy in the Waiting Room says he's Joseph Smithfield, he's an attorney. But as soon as he told me his location and date I didn't stick around to ask him anything else."

"I figured that much out on my own." Sam turned back to the windows; the smoke and dust had begun to rise above the building, and he could see people running towards it. "How many people were in there?" he asked.

Al punched up the data on the handlink. "The estimate was that there were 646 people inside the building this morning."

"God, Al! There are survivors! I may not have been able to stop the bombing or to save some of those people; but I'm a doctor, I can help the injured and maybe save some of _their_ lives," Sam said. Now that he had a purpose he seemed energized.

Al pointed out the window to the cross-street on their right. "That's Robinson Avenue, take it north and it'll put you on the east side of the Murrah building. Be careful out there, Sam, it's dangerous."

Sam ran out of the office into the reception area. As he went he noticed a secretary sitting at her desk and turned his head over his shoulder to tell her, "I'm going to do what I can to help." She was still nodding dumbly as he pulled the front door open and raced down the hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The hall had four elevators on either side, and Sam ran along pushing every 'down' button in turn. He held a brief debate with himself on the advisability of taking an elevator in such an emergency, but decided that surely Al would've warned him if it wasn't safe. Al had only mentioned the possibility of broken glass for this building, which meant he'd need to watch out for that when he got to the ground floor.

As he waited he looked for the door to the stairway, still undecided, but just as he spotted it he heard the 'ding' announcing the arrival of the elevator. He located the correct car, stepped into the elevator before the doors were fully open, and quickly punched the button marked 'lobby'. He watched as the numbered buttons lit in descending order far more slowly than he'd like; as '12' lit he silently willed the elevator to hurry.

It did just that. Sam felt like the floor had dropped out from under his feet, sending his stomach lurching upward to the general vicinity of his throat. Frantically he grabbed hold of the handrail so thoughtfully provided. _"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all,"_ he thought. A few moments later he felt the car slow to a stop and his stomach settled back into its usual place as the doors opened.

He was in another hall with the same double bank of elevators. As he looked around he caught sight of a sign above the car he'd just exited that read "Express", which at least explained the sudden drop. He found the exit at the end of the hall and walked out into a large two-story lobby. The entire east, north, and west walls were comprised of windows, while a mezzanine ran the length of the middle with escalator access on his end. There were shops in the four corners, and a lot of tables and chairs scattered over the stone floor, probably for the lunch crowd. He headed for the doors to the outside, opting to push one open rather than take the time to circle through a revolving door.

Outside on the sidewalk Sam quickly looked both ways and ran across the street, watching out for shattered glass. He trotted down what was, according to the sign on the corner, Robert S Kerr Avenue until he reached Robinson and turned left. He could see the destruction ahead, people milling around in confusion and more, like himself, running to help.

From the south side the building appeared to be intact, but Sam could see debris all around it. There were chunks of concrete, and broken glass was everywhere. Bits of insulation and pieces of paper blew by in the slight breeze and there were unrecognizable items that might have been structural elements or the contents of someone's desk. Sam didn't bother to sort that out. Cars that had been parked nearby had caught on fire, sending up billows of dense black smoke that smelled strongly of gasoline.

He continued on to 5th Street and stopped, confronted with the enormity of the damage. Through the haze of dust and smoke he could see that the center of the building was gone, all nine floors pancaked into a mound at ground level. It looked like a giant had taken a huge bite out of the north side of the structure, leaving a vaguely round gaping wound. The south wall still stood, and the east and west ends appeared intact. The raw edges of the floors were visible, like so many slices. Cables and structural beams hung like limp spaghetti from the raw edges where they'd been severed. Where the street in front of the building had once been there was a thirty foot wide smoking crater that looked to be deeper than Sam was tall. Sam could see that several buildings across the street had taken damage as well.

A man stumbled out of the building, and Sam could see that he was covered in blood. He started forward to help but others were closer; they closed around the man and helped him walk to the curb where they began examining his wounds. There was already a group at the edge of the street, waiting for further assistance from the EMTs when they arrived. Sam took the next person to emerge, a young woman who was dazed and confused but walked along quietly despite the fact that one arm hung limp at her side. He spoke quietly to her, offering comfort and reassurance as he slipped his arm around her waist to guide her away from the destruction.

Once he got her sat at the curb he began a quick examination. He pulled a small shard of glass from her cheek, but without even basic resources for sanitization or disinfection he elected to let the wound continue to bleed. It wasn't deep, and facial cuts tended to bleed copiously anyway, so it looked worse than it was. He continued saying soothing words as he assessed the obvious break in her arm. The only thing he could do was immobilize it against her body, and for that he used his belt.

"What happened?" she asked as someone else was helped to a seat next to her.

"I don't know," Sam said, thinking he should minimize the danger so she wouldn't be any more frightened than she was. "There was an explosion. It's all over, now. You're OK."

"I was in my office and then suddenly it was dark and I'd been knocked down. There was something heavy on my arm, I pushed it off and just started walking, climbing over stuff." She wiped at the blood running down her face and said without emotion, "I'm bleeding."

"There's a cut on your face," Sam told her. "It's not bad but I don't have anything to clean it with. Your arm's broken, too. You just sit right here, the ambulance will be here soon and they'll take care of you."

She looked at the crowd of wounded and volunteers and some amount of comprehension dawned in her eyes. She reached out to pat Sam's arm, telling him "Bless you."

He left her there in the company of many others, waiting for emergency workers to arrive. He felt a little bad about that, but she wasn't critical and he'd done all he could for her. There were more people waiting for what little help he could provide. He ran back towards the building to repeat the process.

Al had remained behind in Smithfield's office. During his time in Viet Nam he'd certainly seen similar scenes of carnage so he wasn't trying to avoid the sight. Nor was it the fact that these people were innocent for war doesn't differentiate, though he hated that idea. It was the simple fact that as a hologram there was nothing he could do to help. Even so, somehow he couldn't make himself go back to the Imaging Chamber; he felt compelled to stay here and watch.

Those without access to a north-facing window had crowded in to stare in silent horror. They stood close together, unconsciously feeling the need for companionship as their minds slowly began to accept the enormity of the situation. Al looked out at the Murrah Building in the near distance. A plume of smoke had risen above the building, a long thin tail stretching upwards and spreading into a huge triangle upon hitting some change in the upper wind currents. The smoky cloud was a deep, dark black and it continued to grow as Al watched. He thought he saw lightning deep within it, then realized it was the sparkle of a zillion tiny pieces of window glass that had been flung upwards by the blast. There was an occasional flash of something larger, and after a few minutes it dawned on him that these were pieces of paper. He looked at Smithfield's desk piled with papers and thought of all the people who'd been sitting at similar desks when the bomb exploded.

In the reception area outside the office the secretary had turned up the volume on her radio so that everyone could hear. The reporters were doing their best, but clearly had little idea what was going on. They kept repeating that an explosion had occurred in the downtown area, but they weren't yet sure of the exact location, much less any of the details. At the moment the suspected target was the Federal Courthouse, which was a block south of the Murrah Building, and a gas leak was offered as a possible cause for the explosion. They gamely passed on information as it came in from callers, all the while stressing that none of it was confirmed at this point.

The workers slowly began to wander out of the office. They were too far away to see what was happening on the ground, and the building itself blocked their view. Their horrified fascination had turned into feelings of restlessness and vague guilt that they weren't out there helping. Unsure of exactly what had happened, they were concerned for their own safety as well. Al walked through the walls to eavesdrop on phone conversations that could be summed up as "Honey, I'm fine, I'm not hurt. No, I don't know what happened – there was just this big boom! Well, I'd better not tie up the phone lines, I wasn't even sure I could get through. I love you, and wanted you to know I'm safe." People were already reaching out to each other for comfort.

Sam heard someone say it was 10:00. He felt like he'd been here forever, instead of just one hour. Ambulances and emergency workers had begun showing up within a few minutes of his arrival, and a command post had been set up half an hour ago. The site was crowded and noisy, in a state of confusion with different groups trying to take care of the injured and dig through the rubble to find more. Not everyone they found was alive; more than once Sam had helped carry a body to the makeshift morgue set up in a nearby warehouse. He thought it was sad to just leave them there, but understood that time was of the essence and those still alive needed him more. They would be taken care of properly as soon as possible.

He was tired and covered with blood, though thankfully he'd been given a mask that helped him breathe amidst all the dust in the air. A lot of people had been struck by flying glass, though he'd seen burns, broken limbs and far worse injuries. Hundreds of rescue workers moved with purpose, but sometimes it was difficult to know where to go or what to do next. The noise level didn't help, though when he was close to the building he could sometimes hear the shouts and crying of those still trapped. He did what he could, taking direction from those in command. There were plenty of doctors and nurses now, and adjacent parking lots had been turned into temporary hospitals; some patients were on gurneys and some simply lay on blankets spread over the concrete.

Deciding he could afford to take a short break, Sam walked to the edge of the scene. A young woman handed him a bottle of water which he promptly drained. She gave him a second, pointed out an area where he could rest and handed him a blanket. As he climbed over the yellow police tape he saw National Guardsmen patrolling the perimeter. He joined a group of others; policemen, firemen, and volunteers of all kinds. He'd taken off his suit coat at some point to put it around one of the victims and the weather was a little cool, but he wrapped himself in the blanket and was just grateful to be able to sit down for a few minutes.

A young man walked down the sidewalk in front of Sam's resting spot, looking nervous and out of place.

"Hey, Joe!" he said, stopping uncertainly. "I saw you run out of the office after the explosion. Man, you look _beat_!"

"Um, yeah, I figured I could help," Sam replied. Obviously this guy worked with Smithfield. "I'm just taking a little break, then I'll go back."

The man turned his head to look at the destruction and milling crowds. "Looks pretty grim."

"It is," Sam said, too tired to elaborate. "Go talk to those people over there if you want to volunteer. We can use everyone we can get."

"Um, actually I was heading to the car. The news just came through that downtown's being evacuated, they're not sure if this was the only bomb I guess. Geez, can you _imagine_? This looks like something you'd see on the evening news, not something that would happen in the Heartland. I mean, I never imagined being _evacuated_ from work. Old Man, uh, Mr. Waters wasn't too happy about it, but I guess he can't argue with the police."

"Yeah. Look, if you're not going to help then get on out of here," Sam told him. "The last thing we need is gawkers."

"OK. You be careful Joe, see ya tomorrow." The man moved off and Sam lay back and closed his eyes for a few minutes.

Fifteen minutes later Sam stood up and walked back into the fray. He did whatever was asked of him; helping victims to the triage area, carrying fresh supplies to those who needed them, shifting rubble to free another victim. His heart said he should be with the doctors, but his head told him that anything he did would be of service. Besides, it might look a little odd for a lawyer to be in the thick of treatment though he'd do it and damn the consequences if he'd felt he was really needed there.

Suddenly he heard shouting and looked up to see uniformed men waving their arms. "Leave the area! Drop what you're doing and _run_! There's another bomb, get _away_ from here!" People were obeying the command, running full-tilt in terror at the thought of another explosion.

Sam stood where he was, uncertain what to do. He saw a rectangle of bright light and watched as Al stepped through; with all the noise he hadn't heard the Imaging Chamber door open. Amidst all the devastation Al looked immaculate in his neatly-pressed white Admiral's uniform with its bright brass buttons and gold epaulets. A pair of firemen raced by and Al gave them a crisp salute.

A policeman strode up and said decisively, "Leave the area now!"

"Is there another bomb?" Sam asked of Al.

"I don't know, my orders are to get everyone out of here," the cop said.

"It's a false alarm, Sam," Al said. "Someone found a training device used for federal agents and bomb-sniffing dogs. But it's just a dummy, no explosives."

"Probably something from the BATF office," Sam said.

"You don't know that, so don't argue with me." The policeman was getting testy.

"But isn't it my decision?" Sam asked. "There's still people in there that need help. I can't run away and leave them."

"I gave you an order. We don't want to take any chances, and you can't help anyone if you're dead." The cop took a step closer. "Now, _run_!"

"I'm a civilian," Sam retorted. "I'm not under anyone's orders. I can help these people, I'm staying."

The policeman grabbed Sam's arm in an attempt to force him away from the area. Sam wrenched his arm free and tried to push his way back toward the building. The cop seized Sam's shoulders and pushed back; his face inches away from Sam's he said, "You want to help, you do what you're told. When I say run, you _run_!"

"Go ahead, Sam," Al said. "He's just doing his job, don't make trouble for him."

Sam quit glaring at the policeman and relaxed the grip he'd taken on the man's wrists. "You're right. I'm sorry, Officer. I'll run." The cop let go with a quick pat on Sam's shoulder to indicate no hard feelings, and Sam trotted off towards the yellow-taped perimeter, too tired to run.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Sam sat in a parking lot with many other rescuers, leaning against someone's car, eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Many of the downtown restaurants had rushed to the scene to provide free food for the workers, and he certainly appreciated it.

"I still say I should be back there, Al. There was only one bomb, right?"

"Take it easy, Sam," Al replied. "Yes, there was only the one bomb but the authorities are nervous, they're not gonna believe you that it's safe. You're a lawyer, how would you know it's not a real bomb?" Al was sitting cross-legged in front of Sam.

" How long before I can go back again?" Sam asked.

"You got another half hour, so just relax," Al replied.

"We couldn't possibly have gotten everyone out of that building, I shouldn't be just sitting here, I should be doing something," Sam said crossly.

"You _are_ doing something, Sam," Al told him. "You're _resting_. I know you want to be doing something else, but the rescuers are only supposed to work one hour at a time, and then they have to rest. I don't have to tell you how bad the conditions are, even the professionals aren't used to this. In a few days a well-known national news reporter is going to make the comment that the Oklahoma authorities weren't prepared for this – but how the hell could _anyone_ be prepared for something like this?"

"I see your point," Sam said as he finished his coffee and stuffed the sandwich wrapper into the empty cup.

"Stick that in your pocket until you can find a trash barrel," Al instructed. "I don't like all this plastic but today I'm not gonna complain, it's worth it to save all these people." Al took a puff of his cigar as he looked around at the scene. Knowing Sam would want to know what was happening, he pulled the handlink from his pocket and checked.

"Oh, here's something interesting," he said brightly. "Right about now Timothy McVeigh is being pulled over by an Oklahoma State Highway Patrolman near a little town named Perry, north of here."

"They caught him already?" Sam asked with surprise.

"Well, they don't know who he is yet, Sam," Al explained. "Apparently the blast blew the license plate off the yellow 1977 Mercury Marquis he'd stashed as his get-away car, and when the trooper stopped him for that he found McVeigh had a gun so he arrested him for carrying a concealed weapon."

"Please don't tell me they let him get away," Sam said sarcastically.

"No, he doesn't get away," Al said. "They find the axle from the Ryder truck and trace it back to a rental agency in Kansas. The fellows there gave police a description of two men, and a couple of days later they realized one of 'em was McVeigh and he was already in custody."

"So I guess the second man was the partner you mentioned earlier."

"No, they never figured out who it was. They called him 'John Doe II'. The sketch was all over the newspapers and TV, but later they decided he must've been someone who'd been in the shop about the same time but wasn't connected," Al said.

"What happens to the Murrah Building?" Sam asked. "There's too much damage for it to be fixed." Al had his cigar clamped between two fingers of his right hand, but years of practice allowed him to punch in the request with ease. Sam watched smoke curl from the tip of the cigar like smoke signals.

"The building was demolished at 7:01 AM on May 23rd, 1995," Al reported. "Afterwards they were able to retrieve the bodies of the last three victims that they hadn't been able to reach before because the building wasn't stable. On April 19, 2000, the Oklahoma City National Memorial was dedicated on the site, commemorating the victims. There's 168 lighted chairs, one for each victim, in the Field of Empty Chairs, a reflecting pool, and – oh, this is kinda cool, Sam."

Sam looked at Al with a weary expression, as if wondering how anything 'cool' could ever come from this much death and destruction.

"See that tree over there?"

Sam looked in the direction Al was pointing and saw the remains of a big tree; many of its limbs had been blown off and what was left was blackened and smoking. "Yeah," he nodded.

"Believe it or not, Sam, that tree isn't dead. It's an American elm, and it's a part of the memorial, they call it the Survivor Tree. Seedlings from it have been sent to the sites of other disasters to help show that life does go on."

"That tree's _alive_?" Sam asked in astonishment.

"No way, that tree's a goner."

Sam looked up at the speaker to see a tall, lanky man in his mid 40's. His slightly shaggy black hair was a little curly, but high cheekbones and a tan complexion shading into bronze hinted strongly of American Indian ancestry. The man wore black slacks and a dress shirt open at the neck; the fact that his clothes were clean meant he must've just arrived at this location.

"I don't think so," Sam told him with a knowing smile. "I was just thinking out loud that my sixth sense tells me that it's going to survive."

Al rolled his eyes at the reference.

"I'm looking for a woman," the man began.

"Aren't we all!" Al popped off with a smirk.

Sam directed a withering glare in Al's direction, muttering "This isn't the right time" under his breath.

"I know. I'm sorry to disturb you," the man said contritely. "I can see that you've been working really hard and I'm sure it's been a horrible morning. But it's my girlfriend...I can't find her!"

Al wiped the grin off his face and raised the handlink, assuming he'd be called on to provide information. "We need a name, Sam," he said.

"I didn't ask anyone their names," Sam said a bit apologetically.

The man squatted down so he wouldn't tower over Sam. "I can appreciate that it's been confusing. She said she was gonna drop by the credit union this morning, and no one's seen or heard from her since."

Sam sat up a little straighter. He hadn't thought about anything but helping the injured, and he realized now that their friends and relatives must be frantic for news. This guy was, understandably, so upset that he wasn't making much sense. Sam needed to calm him down so he could get a straight story. He stuck his hand out and said, "I'm Joe Smithfield. Why don't you take a seat and tell me what you _do_ know."

The man sat on the pavement and shook hands with Sam. "Frank Luckinbill," he said. "But everyone calls me Bud."

For some reason the name conjured up an image of a dainty toy poodle, and the refrain from "Peggy Sue" began running through Sam's mind. "Buddy?" he asked.

"Bud Luckinbill, 43, divorced, no kids, he works at an engineering firm," Al reported. "Ziggy doesn't think you're here for him."

"I've always been just 'Bud'," Bud replied. "My girlfriend's name is Sarah. Sarah Kincaid. She's a tad over five feet tall, blue eyes, shoulder length auburn hair. She's not at work, she's not home." His eyes strayed to the remains of the building, his suspicion plain to see.

"I don't remember seeing anyone who looked like that," Sam told him.

"Sarah Kincaid. She's ah, an accountant, 45, also divorced with no kids," Al read from the handlink's display. "She's not listed among the dead in the bombing. I suppose there's always the possibility that they just never found any of her, ah, remains in the building."

"Are you sure she didn't have any other errands this morning?" Sam asked. "Dry cleaners, grocery store, um…hairdresser?" It was hard for him to think of mundane tasks.

"Not that I know of," Bud replied. "She was gonna pull a couple hundred dollars out of savings so she could have one of the guys at church buy the parts and fix her car. Brakes are getting mushy, needs a new master cylinder. I guess she _could_ have gone somewhere else and not told me. I don't know her all that well."

Sam looked confused. "I thought you said she was your girlfriend."

"Ah, 'girlfriend' might be too strong of a word," Bud said a little shyly. "We've only been seeing each other a few weeks." He paused to think, a little smile playing at his lips. "I haven't even kissed her yet. We're both divorced you see, and we want to take things slow. It's just that there's something about her, somehow I feel close to her like I've never felt close to anyone else."

"Then we need to find her for you," Sam said, though he was looking at Al.

Bud glanced to his side as if trying to see who Sam was talking to. "That's why I came down here. I hoped I might spot her in the crowd, but I can see now that there's a snowball's chance that'll happen."

Al shook his head sadly. "There's not a trace of her, Sam," he said. "She just disappears. Her car's found in Still." He whacked the handlink, causing it to squeal in protest. "Water. Oh, Stillwater, Oklahoma. It's a college town, home of Oklahoma State University."

"She _can't_ just disappear!" Sam said. "Uh, I mean she's got to be somewhere."

"She's never seen or heard from again," Al said. "Ziggy gives it an 89% chance you're here to find Sarah. She could've had some kind of an accident and the body was never found, she could've been kidnapped and killed. She could've run away and changed her name, we just don't know." He poked at the handlink in an effort to recall more data. "There are several unidentified female corpses here and in surrounding states, one could be her."

"She's _not_ dead!" Sam hissed.

"Sam, you see if you can learn anything else from Bud, I'll go back and see what I can learn," Al said. He opened the IC door and disappeared.

"No, she's not," Bud agreed in a firm voice. "I'd feel it here if she were dead." He placed his hand over his heart to illustrate. "I don't suppose you have a cellular phone," he sort-of asked.

Sam remembered transferring the phone when he'd given up the suit jacket. The label said it was a Motorola StarTac, but it looked like a black plastic brick with an antenna and hadn't been easy to stuff in his pants pocket. He handed it over. Bud flipped down the piece with the speaker and made a call, putting his other hand to his ear so he could hear better. Sam could tell that the answer was negative. Bud tried another number, but quickly ended the call with a frustrated look on his face. "Reception's bad, call didn't go through." He held the phone out to Sam.

"Keep it," Sam told him, waving it off. "All the lines are probably busy. You can try again later." Bud needed it and besides, Sam was tired of feeling its two-pound weight in his pocket.

"I'd thought about calling the hospitals, but being here – seeing this – well, they'll have enough on their hands without me bothering them," Bud said thoughtfully. "I'd like to know if she's all right, but if she's at the hospital then she's getting the help she needs. I can check that later, if I need to."

"You're right," Sam said. "They're probably so busy treating people that they won't have time to deal with much else." Sam's voice trailed off and his face acquired a vacant look.

Bud leaned forward to put a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hey, Joe, you OK? You got that thousand yard stare, what's going on in there?"

Sam shook his head to help force his thoughts back to the present. He was a bit chagrinned to realize that in the midst of his own troubles Bud was kind enough to worry about him. "I was just thinking that this reminded me of Watts," he said quietly.

"Watts!" Bud exclaimed. "Were you there during the riot? Man, you must've been a kid at the time! What, did you grow up in L.A.?"

"I was, um, I was going to school out there," Sam said. Bud's comment about his age made Sam wonder how old Joe was – he'd not yet had a chance to look in a mirror on this Leap. "I went to check on friends when I heard about the riot, and ended up helping the injured. Not all of them _had_ hospitals, but I helped save people. I was just thinking that I didn't know their names, either."

"Do you just like helping people, or does trouble seem to follow you?" Bud asked with a slight grin to show he was joking.

"Something like that," Sam replied a trifle cryptically. "They didn't all trust me because of the color of my skin." He was deliberately jumbling the story since there was no way he could explain the whole truth. "What I saw here today is different – here there are human beings helping other human beings, without regard to race."

Bud looked a little perplexed. "Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?"

"Absolutely!" Sam replied.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

When the all-clear came and the rescuers were once more allowed inside the roped-off area to continue their efforts Bud decided to go with Sam. He thought he might see Sarah but, having seen the devastation, he felt it was more important that he help here. Before they left he made one more round of calls, but no one had seen Sarah yet. Sam was convinced that Sarah's disappearance was the reason he was here, which caused some amount of internal conflict for him. Without knowing what had become of Sarah he didn't know how much time he had in which to find her. Yet he clearly felt that his first duty was to continue helping those injured or trapped by the explosion.

Al stepped in as they began moving toward the building. Sam pulled the wad of trash from his pocket and waved it, saying "You go ahead, Bud. I'm just gonna go throw this away and I'll catch up in a sec."

Under Al's watchful eye he tossed the trash, but talked as he went. "Al, have you been able to find out anything more about what might have happened to Sarah?"

"There's not much, Sam," Al told him. "Once Bud filed a missing person report the police checked her out. Originally they had her listed as missing and unaccounted for in the Murrah Building. But something made them take her off that list, so they musta had some reason to believe she wasn't there. In fact they seem to think that she was still alive this afternoon, but it doesn't say why. The main report's been archived, Ziggy's looking into it. So she's all right for the time being, whatever happened hasn't happened yet."

"Is that all you've got?" Sam asked. "What about her car, where did you say it was found?"

Al took a moment to access the information. "It was found on the OSU campus Sunday morning," he read. "The campus cops swore it hadn't been there the night before so it looks like you've got some time before she disappears for good. Oh. Here it says they connected it to the woman missing from Oklahoma City and checked the vehicle for signs of foul play, but found none. The, ah, brakes weren't working, they figured that's why it'd been abandoned."

"Yeah, Bud said she needed to get them fixed," Sam said. "If someone had kidnapped her you wouldn't think they'd leave the car on a busy college campus. There'd be too many people around; someone would notice something was wrong, or she'd cry out for help."

"Ziggy agrees with you, Sam," Al said.

"Well, that's a first!" Sam said somewhat cynically.

"She thinks the evidence points to Sarah disappearing on purpose," Al corrected.

"Did she say _why_ she thinks that?" Sam asked.

"Only that there's nothing to indicate Sarah's dead," Al replied. "That doesn't mean she _isn't_. She could've been killed after the car broke down; there's a lot of farmland and out of the way places in that direction, a body could go unnoticed for a long time. Or she could've gone on wherever she was going after leaving the car and for some reason Ziggy just can't find her. There's just no way to know."

"Bud said he'd know if she were dead, I'm just gonna have to trust him on that," Sam said. "Right now I've got to get back over there, then I'll see what I can do to help find Sarah."

Sam returned to the devastation with renewed vigor, and Bud worked right along side of him. The crowds were just as bad, but the authorities had gotten everyone reasonably well organized. A ladder truck from one of the local fire departments was parked in front of the building to allow workers access to the upper floors, and so-called cadaver dogs had been brought in to help as well. It was hard and dirty work, but they felt amply rewarded every time they heard word that another survivor had been found. Al did his best to direct Sam's efforts, but as a hologram he could no more see what was under the rubble than Sam could.

They paused for a minute to catch their breath and wipe the sweat from their faces. "Wonder if my ex-wife's here," Bud said.

"Did she work here?" Sam asked, surprised that Bud hadn't mentioned it before.

"Nah, but Becky's a nurse," he replied. He pointed towards the medical area. "She's like you, she likes to help people so she'd have come down here if she wasn't on shift already."

Sam shrugged, uncertain how to reply. Bud took the opportunity to pull out the cell phone and make his round of calls again searching for Sarah. Since Sam knew what the result would be he turned away in order to pretend to give the man some privacy.

A short distance away he saw a policeman running from the remains of the structure, carrying a small limp figure. He could tell the child was badly injured, and felt his body tense in preparation to run to its assistance.

"It's too late, Sam," Al said grimly. "You can't help her."

Sam turned to look at Al in consternation. As they watched, the policeman gently placed the child in the arms of a fireman who bore it off towards the medical section.

"That little girl had her first birthday just yesterday. Someone took a photo of what you just saw and it became one of the iconic images of this disaster," Al said.

"She's just a _baby_," Sam said with tears in his eyes. "How could he hurt a little baby?"

He felt Bud's hand on his shoulder, once again offering comfort. "Who you talking about?" he asked.

"The monster that did this," Sam replied, waving a hand to encompass the damage.

"You got that right," Bud said. "You gettin' tired, or do you always talk to yourself?"

"A little of both, I guess," Sam said. "C'mon, we'd better get back to work."

Late in the afternoon Sam and Bud had finished another hour's grim work and were walking away to rest. A hotel-restaurant convention at the Myriad Convention Center a few blocks south had voluntarily shut down, instead bringing their samples to the workers. Under other circumstances the food would've been enticing, but Sam and Bud had eaten only because they needed the calories. They were both exhausted and filthy.

Bud eyed the dark clouds building up to the west of the site. "Looks like rain," he said. "But you know what Will Rogers said."

"What?" Sam asked.

Bud gave a short laugh. "Sorry, forgot you're not a native Okie. 'If you don't like the weather in Oklahoma, just wait a minute and it'll change.' Still, I don't like the look of those clouds."

Al chose that moment to step out of the Imaging Chamber door and say, "Sam, it's about to start raining. I know you won't stop because of a little water, but I thought I'd let you know. Geez, Sam, you look _tired_."

Sam made a pretense of learned meteorological prediction and said, "Yep, I think you're right." He surveyed the activity and made a decision. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat. I hate to say it, but there's plenty of people here and I'm not sure how much more I can do."

Bud sighed and said, "Me, too. We won't be much help if they have to carry us out because we're too tired to walk." He gave Sam an appraising look. "I don't know how you've done it, Joe. You got here before me."

"You'd be surprised what you can do when you have to," Sam replied.

"Where do you live?" Bud asked. "Don't know where you parked this morning, but you might not be able to get your car out. Mine's parked a few blocks away; if we can make it that far I'll be happy to take you home."

"Where do I live?" Sam echoed Bud's question.

"It's a simple question," Bud said with a grin.

"You live in the Regency Towers Apartments," Al supplied.

"Yeah, sorry," Sam said. "I've got an apartment at the Regency Towers."

Bud stopped walking to stare at Sam. "You mean that apartment building over there?" He pointed to a high-rise building across the street and west of the Murrah building.

Sam looked at Al for confirmation, managing a temporary diversion by mumbling "That one?"

"'Fraid so, Sam," Al said.

"Uh, yeah. That's the one," Sam agreed.

"Oh geez, I hope your wife wasn't home this morning!" Bud said with sudden concern.

"My wife?" Sam asked.

"You're – I mean _Joe_ is – single so there was no one in his apartment today," Al said. "And you don't have a kitty-cat or puppy-dog, or even a house-plant to water. There's no reason for you to go back to the apartment."

"Do you repeat everything I say?" Bud asked with a little exasperation.

"I'm sorry, I'm too tired to think straight," Sam told Bud. "I don't have a wife, but I'd _really_ like a hot bath!"

Bud looked at the building in question, but there was so much activity between them and it that it was impossible to see if it'd been damaged. "I'm not sure if they'll let you in tonight. Tell you what, I'll walk over there with you and if you can't get in you can come home with me."

Sam said "Thanks," and they headed off slowly through the crowd.

Al followed along, telling Sam "You can't go in there, Sam. That building took some damage, too. Save yourself the effort, and just go home with Bud. You need to talk to him and get some more information on Sarah, anyway."

"But all I've got are the clothes on my back!" Sam murmured to Al.

"What'd you say?" Bud asked.

"It just occurred to me that everything I own is in that apartment," Sam replied. "Even if I can't stay there I need to get some clothes and things."

At this point they'd gotten close enough to see more yellow tape surrounding the apartment building, and a National Guardsman stood in front of that. The man was polite but firm, refusing Sam entry even after Sam had shown his driver's license to prove he lived there. He also informed them that none of the cars parked in the basement could be removed.

"I guess you're stuck with me for a few days, Bud," Sam said. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"It'll be more than a few days," Al said, checking the handlink for the information. "Joe can get back in the apartment next week for five whole minutes to get whatever he can't do without. You know, personal papers, medicine, mementos, that sort of thing. But he'd better hurry because there's a cop waiting at his front door with a stopwatch and when the five minutes are up he'll be escorted out. It'll be six months before he can even think of moving in there again. By the way Sam, Joe must've walked to work this morning, guess that's one of the reasons he lived here, but it means you've got no wheels, either."

"Glad to help," Bud responded. "And it'll be nice to have some company around the place for a change. I almost hate to ask, but is your car down there?"

"Yes, it is," Sam said, glad that for once today he knew the answer. He hadn't had time to learn much about Joe and felt like he was floundering whenever Bud asked him a personal question.

"Well, then, I guess there's nothing for it but to drag our sorry butts to my car," Bud said in an attempt to lighten the situation a little. "We'll stop at Walmart so you can pick up a toothbrush and whatever on the way to my place."

"You do that, Sam," Al said. "You get some rest, and I'll go back and see if I can find out anything else about Sarah."

Bud's house was an older two-bedroom red brick home in a quiet neighborhood on the south side of the city. Sam insisted Bud take the first shower, which gave him time to sit and recoup a little more energy before cleaning up. He'd plopped down on the floor beside the couch, not wanting to get the furniture dirty even though Bud didn't seem to care. The place was an interesting mixture of old and new; white-painted plaster walls with doorway arches of an almost Moorish shape and polished wood floors were the backdrop for furniture with clean modern lines done in black faux-leather and chrome. Sam turned on the TV, but it seemed bizarre to see the same damaged building he'd worked at all day on the national news feeds and he certainly wasn't in the mood for a sit-com on cable. He turned the TV off.

At length Bud came back into the living room dressed in a sweat suit and rubbing his damp hair with a towel. "Your turn, Joe. I'll fix something for us to eat while you're in there," he said. "I put a sweat suit in there for you." He tugged at the shirt that hung loose on his thin frame. "It won't be quite as roomy on you, but it'll be fine for now."

Sam said "Thanks" and pushed himself to a standing position. He emptied his pockets, leaving the items on the coffee table. He took a good look at his clothes and remarked, "Might as well throw these away, I don't think they're worth trying to clean."

Bud laughingly agreed. "Mine too. I think Danny next door is about your size, I'll give him a call in awhile and see if he can loan you something for work tomorrow. They won't be as fancy as that suit was, but if your boss kicks up a fuss then he's a jerk. You like chicken and rice?"

"If there's a problem, I'll just tell him that it's better than not showing up for work – or showing up naked!" Sam said drolly, though he had no idea who his boss was or whether the man was a stickler for proper dress. Nor did he care. "Chicken and rice is fine," he said as he left the room.

The bathroom looked like a picture from a 1950's home-decorating magazine, though it looked as if it had been recently re-done in that style.

The floor was covered in small hexagonal tiles, white with the occasional black piece thrown in. The bottom half of the walls and the shower was done in 4"X4" turquoise tiles, capped with black. The walls above were painted white. The white porcelain fixtures looked new but all had an antique look about them. Bud had left a clean black towel folded on the counter along with a faded navy sweat suit.

Sam could feel the warm moist air from Bud's shower still trapped in the small room. He walked to the mirror above the sink, but had to wipe away the steam before he could see himself. As he did so he thought that it was a bit odd to have been here for several hours without seeing his reflection, but some Leaps were like that. The face that looked back at him appeared to be in the late 30's, which explained why Bud had been surprised at his mention of being in Watts 30 years ago. Sam made a mental note to be more careful; he felt like he'd slipped up several times now and Bud had noticed.

Joe was just under six feet tall, with brown hair cut very conservatively and brown eyes with thick curly lashes. His eyes were wide-set, his nose small, his lips generous, and his chin a bit square. He wore a neatly-trimmed mustache but was otherwise clean-shaven, though Sam could see the stubble already coming in on his cheeks. The man was tanned, on the stocky side but fit, and apparently normally well-groomed; he would present a very competent and efficient picture to his clients.

Sam elected to run a bath, and stripped down while he waited for the tub to fill. He inspected himself for damage. His hands and forearms were covered with small scrapes and cuts, and there were bruises forming in several spots across his body, but those were all minor. The cuts stung when he settled into the water, but he ignored that and concentrated instead on the soothing effects of the heat. For the next 15 minutes he tried his best to think of nothing, and to block out the horrible scenes he'd witnessed during the day.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Sam and Bud sat in the living room, nursing a couple of beers and saying little. By unspoken agreement the TV was off, though the radio was quietly playing a local station; "Lightning Crashes" by Live was on. Both men were tired to the bone, and content at the moment to be clean and full. Bud's next door neighbor had loaned Sam some slacks and shirts which were doubtless not up to Joe's usual sartorial standards but were fine with Sam. He was beginning to wonder why Bud hadn't mentioned Sarah in awhile when Bud spoke into the quiet.

"I 'spect you think I made a fool of myself this morning."

"Why would I think that?" Sam asked.

"Runnin' down there lookin' for someone I don't know all that well," Bud replied.

"You were worried about her," Sam said. "Clearly you care about her a great deal. And I imagine the news accounts were pretty scary. That hardly makes you a fool."

"I'm _still_ worried about her," Bud said. "It's just that once I got down there I realized how bad it was and that there was no way I was gonna find her. I could see that there were plenty of heroes that would help her if she needed it. If she was even there."

Bud stopped talking, but it seemed obvious that he had more to say. After a minute he took a pull of his beer and said, "I felt guilty. There you were, you'd obviously run out of your office to help strangers. It made me feel selfish."

"It's not selfish to worry about someone close to you," Sam told him. "In fact, I think it was pretty brave of you to jump right in and help strangers even though you didn't know where Sarah was."

"Thanks," Bud said with some embarrassment evident on his face. "'The needs of the many' and all that."

Sam didn't catch the reference so Bud explained. "My problem suddenly seemed so unimportant beside the suffering I saw there, and I knew I could help a lot of other people."

"But it _is_ important to you to find Sarah," Sam said.

"Yes, it is," Bud responded. "I called her house while you were in the bath, but she didn't answer, I just got her machine again." He glanced at the clock and said, "People should be home from work by now, maybe I should call her friends."

Though Sam knew it would do no good he felt it was important for Bud's morale to keep trying. Besides, he might turn up a clue that Ziggy hadn't picked up on. "Yeah, why don't you do that?

"I don't know," he said. "It just suddenly seems odd that I should be so concerned. I mean, since we don't know each other that well yet."

"I don't think that matters," Sam said. "Sometimes you just know if someone's important to you. Why don't you give it a shot, and I'll get us another beer."

Bud thought about it for a minute. "Thanks, Joe. You're right, and I needed to hear that. She _is_ important to me, and I've got to find her."

Sam picked up the empties and left the room. He found a few small tasks to do so he wouldn't feel like he was eavesdropping on the calls. The house was small enough that he could hear Bud's voice, but not the words. When he'd delayed as long as he could and brought fresh beers in Bud was still on the phone, apparently talking to someone at a hospital.

"No, I'm _not_ a relative," Bud was saying. "I'm a friend. She doesn't _have_ any relatives! Couldn't you please just tell me if she's been admitted?"

Bud hung up the phone with a sigh. "Privacy laws," he said in a disgusted tone. "None of the hospitals will tell me a thing. I should've lied and said I was her brother."

"Her friends haven't seen her?" Sam asked.

"No. And she didn't go in to work, either," Bud said.

"I didn't mean to listen in, but did you say she has no relatives?" Sam asked.

"That's right," Bud said. "Well, she's got three siblings, but she's not close to them."

Sam thought of his brother and sister and couldn't imagine feeling that way about either of them. True, he hadn't seen them in a long time, but that was beyond his control. He certainly felt close to them even if he couldn't spend time with them. "Why's that?" he asked.

"Oh, they're all older than Sarah. A _lot_ older; they left home when she was real little and she never heard from them again. She can barely remember their first names."

"They never even contacted their mother?" Sam asked.

"Apparently they did at first, but after awhile they must've quit trying. At least her mom never mentioned it to Sarah if they did. I get the feeling Sarah's mom didn't tell her a lot of things, she didn't sound like an easy person to live with."

"Did she ever try to find her siblings?" Sam wondered.

"She told me she'd thought about it years ago but didn't know how to go about it," Bud replied. "Her brother went into the military, she didn't even know which branch; you know how hard it is to get any info from the government. He could literally be anywhere in the world. Her two sisters both got married so she wouldn't even know their last names."

"That would make it pretty tough to find them," Sam agreed. "You mentioned that Sarah had been married before, so I guess her siblings wouldn't know how to get in touch with her if they wanted to."

"Well, there's another wrinkle," Bud said hesitantly. "Sarah's not real sure what her maiden name _was_."

"Huh?" Sam said. "I don't understand."

Bud chuckled at his confusion. "It's like this. She grew up as Sarah Guilford, the daughter of Molly and John Guilford of Cottondale. She knew her mother had been married before and they'd had the three older kids. But some old biddy in town told her that her mom had been pregnant when her husband had died and while John Guilford had been kind enough to marry Molly and raise Sarah he wasn't her father."

"Didn't she ask her mother about it?"

"She said her mother told her that John was the only daddy she'd ever have, which didn't exactly answer the question. John was dead by then so she couldn't ask him. Her mom would only say that John had been good to her after her first husband had died. Sarah never even bothered to ask what the man's name was, said she figured the old woman was just trying to stir up trouble. In any case she was 18, tired of being stuck in some little hick town and ready to get away from her needy momma. She left town and has never been back."

"What happened to her mother?" Sam asked.

"She died shortly after Sarah left," Bud told him. "Sarah married young and tried for years to make a go of it, but finally decided to get a divorce."

"So, how did you meet her?" Sam thought this topic might be a little happier than Bud's tale of Sarah's early life.

"We met at church," Bud said with a smile. "It was kinda like it was meant to be, in a way. We'd both attended the Baptist church all our lives, but after we'd gotten divorced – uh, from our first spouses, not each other of course – we decided to change churches. I don't think her ex went to church, but I know I felt weird seeing Becky there even though the split hadn't been ugly. I think we both just wanted a change of scenery, something different."

"I can understand that," Sam said. "People at the old church would still tend to think of you as being married. Or worse, keep trying to set you up with someone new."

"Oh yeah, you got that right!" Bud said. "The single women wouldn't leave me alone! They'd fuss over me like a little kid; I got so many chicken casseroles it's a wonder I can still stand to eat the stuff, and I think I still have a couple of their Corningware dishes. The older women extolled the virtues of their daughters, and the younger ones wanted me to meet their mothers. It was a little easier for Sarah just because there are fewer single men our age, but not much."

"I'm sure they meant well," Sam said, though Bud just rolled his eyes. "I guess you can take some comfort in the thought that your ex-wife is busy on the casserole circuit."

"Becky? No way!" Bud said. "She's too independent to run after a man, that's part of why we divorced. Her father ran out on her mother when Becky was little, but her mother showed him! She put herself through medical school and became a doctor. Becky saw how hard a doctor's life is and decided she could help people as a nurse instead. But she still put so much of herself into her job that it hurt the marriage. Shoot, she even took her maiden name back when we divorced; she's Becky Pruitt again now."

"So, what about your family?" Sam asked.

"I'm an only child," Bud replied. "My Mom passed away a couple of years ago, and Dad died the first of the year."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sam said.

"It's OK," Bud said a bit sadly. "I still miss 'em both, but we all have to go sometime. Dad was 83; he'd lived a good life but his health was going and I'm just glad he didn't have to suffer."

It suddenly occurred to Sam that the next logical step in this conversation would be for Bud to inquire about Joe's family history. Since he didn't know it himself – and Al wasn't around to feed him the details – he needed to change the subject. It wasn't difficult to come up with a new one. He drained the last of his beer and said, "I don't know about you, Bud, but I could use some rest. I know it's early yet, but I'm about to fall asleep just sitting here."

"Yeah, me too," Bud replied as he stood up, a bit unsteadily. "It's been a long day, we're entitled to hit the sack a little early. Things'll look better tomorrow; Sarah will probably turn up, too, with some good explanation. C'mon, I'll show you to your new temporary home."

Sam got up and followed Bud out of the living room. On the one hand he knew Sarah would not show up with or without a reasonable excuse; on the other, there wasn't much he could do about it tonight and all he wanted to do was fall into bed. Bud stopped in his tracks and Sam nearly ran into him.

"Uh, sorry," Bud said. "I just remembered. There's a bunch of Dad's stuff in the spare bedroom. I've been going through the papers I'd boxed up when I sold his house."

"Bud, I don't _care_ if the room's a mess," Sam said. "My _hair_ hurts. I just want to sleep."

The room wasn't as bad as Bud had implied. It was small as bedrooms went, furnished simply with a twin bed, nightstand with lamp, small chest of drawers, and a chair. Brown carpet and beige walls were set off by dark blue curtains and bedspread. There was a cardboard box on the bed, its contents partially strewn across the covers. Through the open closet doors Sam could see several more stacked up on the floor.

Bud seemed surprised to find the mess on the bed. "Sarah was helping me with this last weekend. Guess she didn't get finished with this one."

Sam said, "Don't worry about it." He began hastily tossing things back into the box. When he was through Bud picked up the box and set it on top of the stack in the closet. They said goodnight and Sam crawled under the covers, dropping into a deep, restful sleep within seconds.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Sam woke up refreshed on Thursday morning, though he felt a little stiff and sore as he got out of bed. A hot shower helped with that. As he stood at the bathroom sink shaving (always an interesting task considering the disparity between the mirror image and Sam's memory of his own face) he heard Bud's alarm go off.

"Good morning!" Sam called out. "I'll be out in a minute."

Sam heard an unintelligible grumble from the direction of Bud's room and assumed that meant Bud was awake and would be out soon. He finished up and went to his room to get dressed. When he walked out he passed a barely ambulatory Bud in the hallway.

"I'll fix us something for breakfast," Sam told him.

Bud scratched the back of his head, which left a tuft of hair sticking straight up. "'K," he mumbled. He seemed to realize he wasn't being properly appreciative and made an effort to smile. "Sorry, Joe. I'm not really a morning person."

"Then I'll put on a pot of coffee first," Sam said with a laugh.

The kitchen was another example of combining old and new styles. The floor was tiled in alternating black and white squares and the cabinets were painted a glossy white with crystal knobs. The upper row had glass inserts in the doors which allowed Sam to see the contents. The counters were black speckled granite though it wasn't too dark to see as there was plenty of sunshine coming through the double window in the corner above the sink. The stove and fridge were new, with a shiny black finish. A small black bistro table and two chairs occupied the wall opposite the cooking area. He began looking to see what he could find to cook.

Twenty minutes later Sam was putting the finishing touches on breakfast when he heard the TV come on in the front room. Concentrating on cooking several things at once, he caught snatches of the news broadcast. "The total number of deaths is estimated to be between 150 and 200, and authorities estimate more than 300 are still missing after the blast."

Sam flipped the eggs, though he was irritated with himself for breaking one of the yolks. "Official death toll as of this morning is 31, including 12 children…Two bodies were pulled from the rubble at 9 PM last night."

He pushed link sausages around the pan trying to get them to roll over onto the uncooked side. "Shortly after 10:00 last night a 15 year old girl was found alive, the first survivor to be found in hours." _That_ was good news, he thought.

He poured batter into the skillet, making two quickly-widening circles. "The bomb was thought to have been set off in a vehicle parked on 5th street which is north of the building."

He set the table with plates and silverware, then placed butter and syrup in the middle. "The blast occurred on the second anniversary of a blaze that destroyed the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, TX…investigators did not tie Wednesday's blast to the Waco incident." Al had said it was connected, Sam thought. Then he realized that it was less than 24 hours after the explosion and not all of the details would be known yet. He made a mental note to be careful of what he said about those details during the day.

He poured two cups of black coffee and set them on the table. "The weather forecast for Oklahoma City today is mostly cloudy with a high of 69 degrees."

Bud walked in as Sam was piling the plates with food. "This is so bizarre!" Bud said. "The local channels are all showing the national news broadcast. Except the national news is showcasing the local reporters. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to see when something bad happens in New York or Chicago or L.A., but not here in Oklahoma!"

"Unfortunately it's big news," Sam said. "The whole world is focused on Oklahoma City right now."

"We'll show 'em what we're made of!" Bud said. He sat down and took an appreciative sip of coffee. He gestured at the table. "This looks great!"

Sam carried a plate to the table and off-loaded a stack of pancakes onto both plates. "Griddle cakes á la Beckett!" he proudly proclaimed.

Bud raised one eyebrow in a questioning look. "Beckett?" he asked.

"Um, yeah," Sam stammered. "It's an old family recipe, on… my mother's side."

"Oh, OK," Bud said. "It sounded familiar somehow for a minute. I must've known someone named Beckett once, but it's pretty common, couldn't have been you."

They were quiet while they ate, giving their full attention to the food. A few minutes later Bud wiped his last bite of sausage through the remnants of syrup and popped it into his mouth. "Thanks, Joe. That was a mighty good breakfast. I can tell you're not from around here, though."

Mindful of his mental note to be careful of giving "Joe's" personal information to Bud, Sam let the issue of where he was from slide. "Oh? Why's that?" he said instead.

"Because you'd've fixed hash browns and biscuits with sausage gravy, too. Or maybe grits," Bud explained. "_Not_ that I'm complaining one bit! I usually just fix a bowl of cereal for myself."

"Well, uh, I'm glad you liked it," Sam said.

"So, you going in to work this morning?" Bud asked.

"Yeah, guess I ought to," Sam replied. "I told the secretary I was going to see if I could help, but they probably wonder what happened to me. I hate to impose, but could you drive me there?"

"You're not imposing. It's the Christian thing to do, and I'm glad to be able to help," Bud said firmly. His face lit up with a smile. "In fact, it occurred to me last night that Sarah was probably at the church yesterday helping people whose loved ones were hurt or missing. Or maybe out rounding up supplies to donate to the Red Cross. She was probably dog-tired when she got in last night and just didn't bother listening to her messages."

"That's possible," Sam said warily.

Bud got up from the table and said, "Lemme just give her a call and make sure she's OK, then I'll take you downtown."

Sam said, "Sure." He began clearing the table and putting things up.

A moment later Bud stuck his head in the doorway, a concerned look on his face. He said, "She didn't answer. Maybe she's just not up yet, but I think I'll call around a little before we leave, if that's all right with you."

Sam felt bad; he knew Bud wasn't going to get any answers but couldn't tell him that. And he didn't have any himself. He waved an acceptance in Bud's direction, then decided he might as well do the dishes. Apparently as a single person Bud hadn't felt he generated enough dirty dishes to bother with a dishwasher. Sam didn't mind washing by hand, it gave him something to do and made him feel vaguely useful.

Once the kitchen was back in order Sam refilled both coffee cups and took them into the living room. Bud raised his mug in a gesture of thanks as he continued his phone conversation. Sam sat on the couch and sipped his coffee as he listened to several more one-sided conversations. At length Bud hung up the phone and plopped down in the recliner.

"Nobody's seen her, Joe," he said in a worried tone. "I thought I'd just jumped the gun and everything would be fine today. But she wasn't at the church, like I'd thought. I still can't get anything out of the hospitals, I think I'd better go talk to Admissions in person."

"How will you know which hospital she might have been taken to?" Sam asked. "I heard the EMT's saying Saint, uh…"

"Saint Anthony," Bud supplied. "It's the closest, on 10th Street."

"Yeah, I heard they were full and people were being taken to, um, to the other hospitals in town."

"Well, since I'm taking you downtown anyway, I'll start with Saint Anthony's and if she's not there I'll check the others. I have to do it, Joe." His eyes pleaded with Sam to understand.

Sam stood up and patted Bud's shoulder. "I know. And I really hope you find her."

"Well, come on then, let's get going," Bud said with a little false bravado. He glanced at his watch. "I think I can just get you to work on time if we leave now."

As it turned out, Sam was late for work after all. All the off-ramps to the downtown district were closed and Bud had to circle the area until he could find a way off the highway. Then he had to meander down busy streets he wasn't familiar with as he tried to get close to Leadership Square. To make matters worse several streets were one-way; traffic on Walker went north while the next street, Hudson, was southbound. Bud apologized, explaining that he rarely went downtown; Sam assured him it wasn't a problem since he could've done no better.

They ended up driving down 7th Street, which was closer to the site than they'd intended. Perforce Bud had to drive slowly as the drivers in front of him slowed to look at what remained of the building. Even from there they could see searchers moving about on the upper floors.

Finally Bud worked his way down Broadway to Kerr and Sam said he'd walk from there. He could see the tall glass building only a block ahead, but by the time he'd made it to the front door he was coughing a little. Evidently there was still a great deal of dust in the air from yesterday's explosion.

Now that he knew what to expect from the express elevator Sam wasn't bothered by its rapid ascent from lobby to 12th floor. When he got to the office he found a group gathered in the break room, discussing the event. Everyone else was dressed fairly casually too, though he noted that "casual" in a high-priced lawyer's office was considerably more tailored and expensive than his own attire.

When he asked about the change in dress-code he was told that the air conditioning had been shut down so it could be inspected for possible damage. Several of the big glass panels had shattered throughout the building, but none near this office. Joe's colleagues were eager to hear of his rescue efforts, but Sam found it difficult to talk about, it was still raw in his mind. As soon as he could he headed for his private office, shutting the door and hoping Joe didn't have anything important on the day's schedule. 

Sam made it through the day by the simple expedient of closing his office door and telling the secretary not to put any calls through. He was happy to let his colleagues think he was holed up and brooding over yesterday's events, which wasn't too far from the truth. He hoped Al would show up with more information on Sarah, but it didn't happen. He made a stab at reading the paperwork on Joe's desk, but couldn't follow most of the legal language; too many 'whereases', 'aforementioneds', and parties of some part or another. Why couldn't lawyers speak English?

He was glad when the clock finally read 5:00 and he could leave, even though he had to wait 30 minutes for Bud to pick him up. The landscaping on the corner of Kerr and Robinson consisted of several four-foot tall concrete planters, so Sam perched on the edge of one to people-watch while he waited. Everyone was going home, but he noticed that they'd look to the north as they walked as if trying to see what was happening at the Murrah Building. He could see the yellow tape from where he sat, and feverish activity around the building as rescuers continued to search for victims.

Sam saw Bud's car approaching and slid off the planter to meet him at the curb. "You call for a taxi?" Bud joked as Sam got in and shut the door.

"Yeah, sure did. How was your day?" Sam responded as he buckled up.

Bud pulled out into traffic and began the drive home. "Not so good," he answered. "I got a better response by going to the hospitals. Guess they've had time to get a little better organized by now. But Sarah hadn't been admitted to any of them and her name wasn't on the list of those that were treated and released either. I don't know if that's good or bad."

"I know you'd have rather found her, even if she'd been hurt," Sam said.

Bud was silent as he concentrated on merging with traffic. "I talked to the guy in charge of the morgue," he finally said.

Sam knew the answer to that, but for the sake of form said, "And?"

Bud's voice was hoarse with emotion. "He said some of those bodies aren't going to be easy to identify. I gave him a description and he said it didn't match anyone there, but I got the feeling that he couldn't be sure. Maybe they just haven't identified her yet." He turned his head briefly to make eye contact, his fear evident on his face.

"Or what if she's still there?" he asked. "What if she's dead and they just haven't found her body yet? The credit union's on the first floor, she could be buried under all that rubble."

"What if she's _not_?" Sam asked. "She might not have even been there yesterday."

"She's still not answering her phone," Bud told him. "I've called so many times now the tape's full."

"I understand you're worried," Sam said. "But there could still be a good explanation."

"Like _what_?" Bud asked.

Sam knew there wasn't one, and hated to lead Bud on. He knew Sarah hadn't died in the bombing, but then he didn't know what had happened to her either. This was the tough part of a Leap; he wouldn't have been sent here if there wasn't a good chance he could figure it out but at the moment he either didn't have the right clues, or hadn't put them together yet. He'd been trying to keep Bud's spirits up, but he sure didn't want to promise him that everything would turn out all right.

"Uh, I don't know," Sam said. He heard the Imaging Chamber door open and glanced at the back seat to see Al sitting there. Al was dressed somewhat patriotically in deference to the terrorist attack on American soil; he wore red slacks, blue shirt, and a vest with a "paint splatter" print in red, white, and blue. Sam directed a questioning look at him.

"Hi Sam," he said. "I've got good news!"

Sam gave him a look that clearly said "Yes?"

"I found out why the police took Sarah's name off the list of people unaccounted for in the bombing. Turns out a neighbor saw her on Wednesday afternoon. Of course that doesn't tell us what _happened_ to her after that. Why don't you go check out her house, maybe she left a note or something."

"She wouldn't have left a note," Sam said to Al in a quiet but argumentative voice.

"Hey, you know, she _might_ have," Bud said with enthusiasm. "Maybe she went to stay with a family from the church who hasn't heard any news yet about one of their members, or to take care of someone who got hurt. She could still be there."

"Yeah. Why don't we go to her house?" Sam said enthusiastically. Then his face fell as he realized the problem. "How are we gonna get in?" he asked, his head turned toward Al in the backseat.

"No problem," Bud said cheerfully. "She told me she gave a key to the neighbor in case of emergency."

Al said, "Sam, you could talk to the neighbor that saw her yesterday. You might learn something that wasn't in the police report."

"Do you know which one it was?" Sam asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Sorry, it wasn't in the report that Ziggy found. You'll have to ask around," Al said.

Almost at the same time Bud said, "Nah, but we can ask around. What are you looking at back there, anyway?"

Caught in the act, Sam turned his attention to Bud. "Um…there's a car following really close. I, uh, I hope he doesn't hit us."

Bud studied the rear view mirror for a moment but saw no tailgater. He turned briefly to look at Sam, a skeptical look on his face, but said nothing.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"Who'd you say you were again, young fella?" Dick Hollis asked. "I ain't sure I should give you Miz Kincaid's key."

"My name's Bud Luckinbill. I've been seeing Sarah for awhile," Bud said patiently. "We go to church together," he added as if that might make a difference.

Dick eyed the two men standing on his front porch with concern. "You her boyfriend?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well, I'm not sure I'd go quite that far," Bud replied.

"You must've seen his car over here sometimes," Sam piped up.

Dick looked around them to scrutinize Bud's car in the driveway across the street. "OK, yeah, I do remember seein' that car. And Sarah did mention to me recently that she was seein' someone. About time, if you ask me. She's a good kid and she deserves to be happy." Dick was an old man, short and dumpy with a halo of white hair surrounding a bald crown, and a kindly twinkle in his eyes.

"But Bud hasn't heard from her since the bomb went off yesterday and he's worried about her," Sam said. "She's not answering her phone. He just wants to check to see if she's there and OK."

"Well, she looked OK when I saw her yesterday," Dick told them.

"You saw her yesterday?" Bud asked eagerly. "What time?"

"Lessee, now," Dick said, scratching his head to aid the thought process. "Must've been right around noon, I think. I come out here after lunch to have a smoke on the porch," he said. "Good way to get outta the house so's I don't have to watch the soaps with the Missus," he added with a wink.

"Did you talk to her?" Bud asked.

"Nah, I waved but I guess she didn't see me," Dick replied. "She seemed in a kind of a hurry."

"She's _alive_!" Bud cried.

"Well of _course_ she's alive," Dick said testily. "Why wouldn't she be?"

"I thought she'd been in the Murrah Building," Bud explained. "She was gonna go to the credit union, but no one's seen her since then. Except you. Oh thank God, now I know she didn't die in there. Are you _sure_ about the time?"

"'Course I'm sure," Dick replied. The Missus always makes lunch same time ever day so she can watch the TV afterwards. Her soaps, they weren't on because of that bomb, but that didn't change lunch-time."

"When did she leave?" Sam asked.

"Don't rightly know," Dick allowed. "I went back in the house and musta fell asleep. Don't remember her car bein' there last night, now that I think about it." He seemed to come to a decision. "You fellas wait right here and I'll get you that key. Sure hope she's OK. You'll let me know now, won't ya?"

"Sure will," Bud said.

Dick went back inside and Sam could hear him calling out to his wife about the location of the key. After several minutes of loud questions, and much slamming of doors and drawers, Dick reappeared with the key in hand. They thanked him and headed across the street.

Sam saw Al walk through Sarah's front door onto the porch; Al shook his head, indicating he had no good news from his exploration. Sam hung back as Bud unlocked the door, pretending to admire the flowerbed full of cutesy statues.

"No note," Al said. "No threatening letters or blackmail demands lying around, either. But the bedroom's all in a mess, drawers open and clothes hanging out of 'em. Maybe someone was looking for something she'd had hidden."

"What could it be?" Sam asked. "Have you checked her background – is there anything in her past that might explain this?"

Al tapped cigar ashes on the head of an especially odious garden gnome, who ignored the insult. "Nada, Sam," he replied.

"How about her friends, co-workers, um…people at the church?"

"Gimme a break! This is a big city, I can't check everyone out," Al said defensively. Then a little more calmly, "I had Ziggy look at a bunch of those folks, but there's nothing to indicate why she disappeared."

"Who's her ex-husband?"

"It isn't the ex-husband! Geez, why does everyone always suspect the ex-husband?" Al exclaimed. Then, more quietly, "Just because the poor sap _wishes_ his ex-wife would disappear off the face of the earth…"

"_Did _he wish she'd disappear?" Sam asked seriously.

"No. Probably…I don't know, Sam." Al pulled the handlink from his pocket and began looking for information. "Ah, the guy's name is Jim Kincaid. He's a used-car salesman, works for one of those "we finance" type of places, seems to have a fairly stable job history. Oh! Here it says he got picked up a couple times for DUI, but no indication he likes to get in bar fights, no charges of spousal abuse."

"Who filed for divorce, him or her?" Sam asked.

"That'd be in the civil court records, not criminal," Al muttered to himself as he worked. He studied the display, and let the hand holding the handlink drop to his side with a dismayed look on his face. "Nope! That wasn't it. Jim filed, and Sarah didn't contest it. Looks like they split everything 50-50."

"OK, doesn't sound like he's a good candidate. But that doesn't rule him out! I can talk to him later if I need to," Sam said. "I'd better get inside before Bud wonders what happened to me."

Sam held the storm door open and gallantly gestured for Al to go in first. They played out the same silent scenario they had many times before; Sam giving a mock glare at the thought of Al walking through the wall, and Al looking smugly innocent as he walked through what was to him a holographic (and therefore non-existent) open doorway. As Sam let the door swing shut behind him he looked around to see Bud sitting in the living room listening to Sarah's phone messages, and obviously wondering who Sam had pretended to usher in.

Sam ignored Bud's questioning look and listened to the messages, which gave him a good excuse not to say anything. He looked around the room to see that the garden animals should've clued him in to Sarah's taste in decorating. The predominant color was pink, chintz seemed to be the fabric of choice, and there were ruffles everywhere possible. Not to mention dozens of ceramics that tended toward angelic children and cartoon-like animals. The tape came to the end after one of Bud's many messages and clicked off audibly.

"Anything besides your calls?" Sam asked.

"Couple of cold sales calls, and a charity begging for donations," Bud replied laconically. He heaved a loud sigh. "I was hoping someone from church had called asking her to help out."

"We don't know they didn't," Sam said, wincing inwardly at the suggestion of false hope that gave. It occurred to him that this at least gave him a reason to recommend they check Sarah's bedroom. "She might've been here to take the call, and if she _did_ plan on staying with someone she'd have wanted to pack a bag."

"Sure!" Bud said with relief. "She'd want her own toothbrush and PJ's so they wouldn't have to worry about her. Let's go have a look-see." He got up and left the room.

Sam followed Bud into the bedroom with Al bringing up the rear. "It's not as bad as I'd thought," Sam said in an aside to Al.

"What's not?" Bud asked.

"The, uh…it's not as, as…as _frilly_ as I'd expected," Sam stammered.

"Are you _kidding_?" Al asked. "I've seen _bordellos_ that weren't this over-done! Just look at that canopy bed with all the eyelet lace."

Bud chuckled softly and said, "It _is_ obvious that no man lives here!"

Sam wanted to point out to Al that since he, Sam, would never _go_ to a bordello he'd have no means of comparison, yet something about that statement didn't ring true. He banished the thought with a slight shake of his head; he couldn't say anything without sounding like a lunatic to Bud anyway.

"Is Sarah always this messy?" he asked instead.

Bud blushed a little and said, "Don't know. This is the first time I've ever been in her bedroom."

"The rest of the house is neat as a pin," Sam remarked. He walked to the dresser and picked up the edge of something black and lacy that was hanging out of a slightly open drawer. "The kind of woman who keeps her house spotless doesn't usually leave her lingerie in plain sight."

Al scurried over to check it out. "Ooh, pick it up, Sam, let's see what it looks like!" he said excitedly. "I bet it's one of those baby-dolls, with a little red bow about here…" Al raised both hands to chest height to demonstrate the untying of such a bow. "Maybe it's got red fuzz on the bottom too." He was getting warmed up now. "Oh, and cute little matching undies…just think how much fun it would be to…"

Sam cut him short with a stern, "I'm _not_ going to go through her lingerie drawer." He flipped the unknown garment back into the drawer and then shut it.

"Spoil sport," Al said petulantly.

"Better you than me," Bud said. "You're right though, Joe." He gestured around the room where they could both see other drawers partially open and clothes scattered about.

"Well, it's hard to tell what might have gone on here," Sam said thoughtfully. "I mean – no offense, Bud – maybe Sarah's careful about the rest of the house because that's the public part, but she's a slob in here because she doesn't expect anyone else to see it."

"Sam, the place's been tossed," Al insisted. "Isn't it obvious?"

"We-ell, I guess so," Bud said hesitantly. "I wouldn't have thought it of her, though."

"_Whatever_ happened…" Sam cut his eyes toward Al. "isn't clear. There's a little bit of a mess in here, but it's not bad."

Bud let his eyes roam around the room, taking in the signs. "Looks kinda like someone was _looking_ for something, doesn't it?"

"Maybe," Sam allowed.

"There's no 'maybe' about it!" Al maintained staunchly.

"I just can't figure what anyone would be looking for," Bud said, shaking his head. I mean, I don't think she had any money to speak of, and I don't even think she had any jewelry worth much."

"Let's see what's in the drawers that're open," Sam said. "Maybe that'll give us a clue."

"Like what?" Bud asked, clearly uncomfortable going through someone else's possessions, especially Sarah's.

Sam opened the lingerie drawer again and carefully moved the contents around to take inventory. Al leaned forward on the balls of his feet to get a better look, puffing on his cigar in anticipation of seeing another sexy negligee. Sam ignored Al, pointedly shut the drawer, and moved on to the next ones.

"Nightgowns in here, underwear, and socks." He pointed to each drawer in turn. "And in the big one…" he pulled it all the way open. "We have jeans."

"So?" asked Bud. "Isn't that exactly what you'd expect to find? Whoever searched the place either took what they were looking for, or didn't find it."

Sam straightened up from his search and looked at the closet door which was standing ajar. "Do you know if Sarah had a favorite piece of clothing? A jacket, or dress maybe."

Bud frowned a bit in concentration. "She had a big green cardigan sweater she wore a lot. She looked nice in it, set off her hair or something."

Sam strode to the closet and looked through its contents. "I don't see anything like that in here," he reported. He came back out carrying a medium-sized suitcase which he set on the bed. Bud stepped closer to watch as Sam opened it. Two more successively smaller cases were nested inside.

"It's a set," Sam said. "And I'd bet there was one more big one that these fit into."

"Well, isn't that what we hoped to find?" Bud asked in bewilderment. "She packed up a bag to go stay with someone."

"I don't think so," Sam said. "Why would she need her biggest suitcase if she were just going to stay overnight? Go check the bathroom, Bud. See if anything's missing. Toothbrush, shampoo, things like that."

"Wouldn't you expect that?" Bud asked, though he dutifully followed instructions and headed for the hall.

"What're you thinking, Sam?" Al asked. "Are you saying Ziggy is right and Sarah ran away?"

Sam was busy looking in the closet again. "That's _exactly_ what I'm saying. There's empty hangars in here where she's pulled clothes out, and it looks like a couple pairs of shoes are missing." He pointed with his foot at gaps between the shoes neatly lined up on the floor of the closet.

"Ooh, look at her jewelry box, Sam," Al said with sudden insight. "A woman _never_ skips out without her jewelry."

Sam crossed the room and opened the flower-patterned box set on a crocheted doily in the center of the dresser top. Strains of "Beautiful Dreamer" floated on the air in the peculiarly mechanical fashion of all music boxes. There was a jumble of necklaces, bracelets, and earrings inside. Sam stirred the heap with a finger, but it was impossible to tell if anything were missing. He closed the lid again, more to silence the music than anything.

"I had a girl run out on me once," Al said musingly.

"Just once?" Sam quipped. Then, "I'm sorry, Al."

"Her name was _Carla_," Al continued with his reverie as if Sam hadn't spoken. "She was a tall girl with raven hair and _long_ legs. I bought her this full-length white mink coat, see, and when I'd come home after a hard day's work she'd meet me at the door wearing the coat." Al's smile had a dreamy cast to it. "Nothing on under it, just the coat." The smile disappeared and his voice became harsher. "I came home one day to find a note saying she was gone. The only thing she took with her was that mink coat."

"It's just a coat," Sam said reasonably.

"The damn thing set me back a thousand bucks!" Al said indignantly. Then his face softened as he said, "But it was worth every penny to see her slip it off her bare shoulders…"

"We're not looking for a missing coat here, Al," Sam snapped.

"Why not, pal?" Bud asked, having come back into the bedroom unnoticed by either Sam or Al.

Sam jerked his head around in surprise. "Huh? Oh, well, because it's April so it's not cold enough that she'd need a coat. Especially since she's got that green sweater with her," he said.

"Good save," Al applauded.

"Anything missing from the bathroom?" Sam asked.

"Toothbrush is gone, but nothing else that I can tell," Bud replied. "There's a big blob of something white in the sink, maybe toothpaste, I didn't wanna touch it to find out."

"It could be shampoo, Sam," Al offered. "Maybe she poured stuff into those little plastic bottles, uh, whadda ya call 'em..." His hands were making complicated pouring motions to demonstrate his point.

"Travel bottles!" Sam said. "She could've put her shampoo and stuff into travel bottles so they wouldn't take up so much room in her suitcase."

"More plastic in the landfills that won't break down for a thousand years," Al muttered.

"Well, that would make sense," Bud said reasonably.

"Maybe not," Sam said. "It looks to me like she packed for more than an overnight stay. She needed room for clothes, and probably figured she could buy toiletries if she ran out."

"You think she went somewhere out of town?" Bud asked in a surprised tone.

"Looks that way to me," Sam replied. "Does she take any prescription medications that you know of? Were they still in the medicine cabinet?"

"No, she doesn't. I remember our talking about that when we were going through my Dad's stuff. He was on a bunch of meds and we were saying how expensive they were and how glad we were we didn't have to worry about that yet."

"OK, scratch that idea," Sam said. "What else would you take if you were going on a trip?"

"But where would she go?" Bud asked. "And _why_? Why wouldn't she tell someone? I mean, maybe not _me_, but wouldn't she ask Dick to watch the house, take in the mail, that sort of thing?"

"How about a passport?" Al suggested. "Maybe she ran off to Europe with some tall, dark, and handsome stranger she just met."

"Yeah, did she have a passport?" Sam echoed Al's question, though he ignored the colorful insinuation.

"She told me she'd never been out of the continental United States," Bud replied. "So I don't know why she'd have one."

Sam headed to the bedroom door, calling over his shoulder, "Where does she keep her paperwork, bills and that sort of thing?"

Bud followed him into the living room, looked around a moment, then pointed to an antique secretary in one corner. "Maybe there."

Sam hurried over and pulled down the front panel which opened into a writing surface. This revealed several pigeonholes full of papers, which he sorted through. "Car insurance, paid bills, bank statements, checkbook…nothing unusual," he said.

"She didn't leave town, Joe," Bud said truculently. "You know the radio said there were still a lot of people missing. She's gone to be with someone who's still waiting to hear, or…well, that has to be it. It just _has_ to be. We should go, now."

"You might as well leave," Al said. "There's nothing more here. I'll go back and have Ziggy run some more checks on anyone Sarah might know, but I'm not sure it'll do any good." He disappeared into the bright white IC doorway.

"OK," Sam said. He understood that Bud was trying to keep up a positive attitude, and had to admit to himself that they hadn't found any meaningful clues anyway. They might as well go home. "We'll give the key back to Dick and go get something to eat."

Bud turned around to head for the front door and didn't see Sam slip Sarah's checkbook into his pocket.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Sam stood in the shower on Friday morning letting the hot water cascade over his body. He'd put forth so much physical effort on Wednesday that he'd woken up still a little stiff and sore. As he lathered up he checked to see how his many minor injuries were healing; the cuts and scrapes were at the scabbed-over and itchy stage, while the bruises had had time to turn dark so that they stood out starkly even on the areas of tanned skin. They'd all heal. There was a particularly nasty bruise on the pale skin of his left hip. He reflected that it seemed odd how you could bang into something hard enough to bruise and yet not remember doing it. He'd really like to just stand there for about thirty minutes, but finished up before he used all the hot water.

This morning was much like yesterday. Bud seemed a little more alert; when Sam opened the bathroom door he found him patiently waiting his turn and he'd already started the coffee, too. That was nice, Sam thought; he could sip his coffee while he cooked breakfast.

Again as the cooking was almost finished Sam heard the TV blare from the front room, and he caught bits and pieces of the news in between his tasks. The morning's official body count stood at 41 souls, and the search continued. No survivors had been found on Thursday. The FBI had released sketches of two unidentified white males wanted as suspects in the bombing. Officials believe the men rented a truck, put the bomb aboard, and parked it in front of the federal building. The weather forecast for the day was mostly cloudy and 73 degrees.

They discussed the developments in the bombing as they ate, Sam remembering to be careful not to give away too much information. It meant that Bud did most of the talking. After breakfast Sam cleaned up while Bud went through one more round of calls looking for Sarah. Sam could tell from the look on Bud's face that he knew he was just going through the motions, but he still felt he had to do it.

Sam carried two cups of coffee into the living room and handed one to Bud, who hung up the phone as he took it.

"I didn't call any of the hospitals," Bud said apologetically. "I guess I have to accept that she's not in the hospital."

"No luck anywhere else?" Sam asked.

Bud blew across the top of his coffee to cool it, and took a cautious sip. "No. But that doesn't mean she's not still at someone's house. Several of the church folks said people are still holding vigils; by now they're beginning to accept that their loved ones must be dead, but the not-knowing must be horrible, they'd really appreciate someone just being with them."

"I can't imagine," Sam said simply, shaking his head.

Bud managed a slurp of coffee, wincing at the temperature. He looked up at Sam and said, "You still think Sarah's left town?"

Sam set his own cup on the coffee table. "Yes, I do. _But_ I don't have any idea where she went, or why. I just have a feeling that's what's happened."

"And you don't have any proof," Bud stated. "I'm sorry, Joe. I just can't buy that idea."

"Well, now, maybe I can _get_ some proof," Sam said. He pulled Sarah's checkbook out of his pocket and held it out to Bud.

Bud took it with a quizzical look on his face. When he flipped open the cover and saw what it was he got angry. "You took this from her house last night! You didn't have the right to do that."

Sam held both hands up palms out in a placating gesture. "I know, and I'm sorry. But if you'll just bear with me on this I have an idea."

Bud merely raised one eyebrow, as if to say he'd listen but didn't expect to like what he heard.

Sam said, "If you decided to leave town suddenly you'd need money, right?"

"Right," Bud grudgingly admitted.

Sam pointed at the checkbook in Bud's lap and asked, "What's the balance on the account?"

Bud opened it and turned the pages of the register until he found the last entry. "Uh, this says she's got $1,467.28." He closed it again, as if to show his distaste with the whole subject.

"So what if I make out a check to you for, say, $500," Sam suggested.

"_Five hundred dollars!_" Bud echoed.

"$500 will do very nicely," Sam said.

"You'd forge her name?" Bud asked in revulsion.

"Well, yeah, but you're not really going to cash the check anyway," Sam explained.

"I'm certainly not!" Bud exclaimed.

"Calm down, Bud," Sam said soothingly. "A $500 check is big enough that someone would want to make sure it wouldn't bounce before they cashed it. We take it to Sarah's bank and ask the teller to verify that, they do it all the time."

Bud's posture relaxed as comprehension dawned. "OK, I get it," he said with relief. "If there's not enough money in the account to cover the check, she's probably cleaned it out and that _might_ indicate she went on a trip. Or needed the money for something else."

"Exactly," Sam said.

An hour later they walked out of the local branch of Sarah's bank. "I apologize, Joe," Bud said. "When that lady said the account had been closed I knew you were right, even though I hadn't wanted to believe it."

"I'm just sorry it's turning out this way," Sam said. "But you're right in that we don't really know why she wanted the money."

"This is starting to sound like a detective movie," Bud remarked. "Do we have the right clue yet and just don't know it?"

"She closed the account on Wednesday," Sam mused. "Is that a clue?"

"Doubt that matters," Bud replied. "You got any more bright ideas?"

Sam shook his head, saying, "'Fraid not. Guess we'd both better get to work; we can think about it during the day, maybe one of us will come up with something."

"Might's well," Bud agreed. "But I'm pretty worried about her, don't know if I'll get much done. At least tomorrow it'll be 72 hours since she disappeared and I can file a missing persons report. Maybe the police can find out something we can't."

Having learned from yesterday's traffic mistakes, Bud managed to get Sam a little closer to work this time, dropping him off on the corner of Robinson and Kerr. Al was waiting for Sam, passing the time by watching the girls go by. Today he was wearing green slacks and a shirt in several shades of green. A lime tie with circular cutouts along the edges and an emerald hat completed the outfit. Sam waved 'hello' and began walking toward him. Al returned the wave, then turned the gesture into a far more elaborate one aimed at a pair of young girls running across the street, apparently toward him, to avoid oncoming traffic.

"You got any information for me, Al?" Sam asked.

Al turned toward a handsome and quite buxom woman who'd just dropped an armload of file folders. She squatted down to gather them up and Al leaned forward to get a better view of her cleavage. "Need some help, dear?" he asked sweetly.

"_I_ could use some help, Al. C'mon," Sam said, pointing toward the building entrance as he began walking that direction. "Did you check out any of those people we talked about? Did you find out anything more about Sarah? How about her car, is there anything more on it?" Sam stopped where he was and turned around. "Al? Are you listening to me?"

Al was still ogling the struggling woman. "_Al!_" Sam said loudly. He added a piercing two-tone whistle designed to get Al's attention, though it failed to work. With a shrug of his shoulders he retraced his steps so he could talk without yelling.

Reluctantly Al turned to face Sam. "I'm listening, Sam," he said testily. "I can listen and look at the same time! And no, I wasn't able to pick up on anything that might be helpful. Sorry." His gaze returned to the view in front of him.

"OK, well, what do you make of this?" Sam asked. "Sarah closed her checking account on _Wednesday_. The bank teller couldn't say what time of day, but I don't think it matters. Dick said she was home around noon, and in a big hurry. I think she got what money she could get quickly, packed up and left."

The woman turned her head to glare at Sam. "Take a picture, it lasts longer!" she said acerbically.

Sam looked startled, then quickly realized that from her point of view _he_ seemed to be the one ogling her, not Al. He moved to her side saying, "I'm sorry, here let me help."

As Sam began picking up folders Al gave an exaggerated sigh, and moved a few steps to the side so he could continue watching the show. "I'd help her if I could, you know that, but I'm a hologram, I _can't_. Besides, I was enjoying the view!" Sam just rolled his eyes.

"So Sarah packed up and left. To go where? And why would she run away? Al asked reasonably. Now that the woman had retrieved all her folders with Sam's help she'd walked on, and Al was once more giving his full attention to Sam. "It's not that I don't think you're right, there's just not very much to go on here. I mean, she could've run away or she could've been kidnapped, we just don't know."

"Tell me about it," Sam replied as he began walking. "But I feel like I'm getting closer, Al. Too bad I can't take a look at her car, it might tell us something."

"Sam, I told you the police checked that car over when they found it." Al brought up the handlink and accessed information. "See, right here it says there was no blood in the car. There was a paper bag full of trash from MacDonald's, and cigarette butts in the ashtray, but no blood."

"Sarah doesn't smoke," Sam said thoughtfully. "I didn't see any ashtrays at her house. So whoever drove that car to the college town, it wasn't Sarah."

"So maybe the kidnapper smoked, if she was kidnapped."

"Why would she be kidnapped?" Sam asked, making it clear he didn't think that was plausible.

"Oh, I don't know," Al replied, clearly at a loss for an explanation himself. "Ooh! Maybe someone in the bank saw her get the cash. They could've followed her out to her car and forced her to take 'em somewhere."

"I s'pose that's possible," Sam admitted. "But if all they wanted was the money, what happened to Sarah? Why didn't she show back up and call the police?"

"The easy answer is that he killed her, Sam. That way she couldn't identify him."

"But you said her body was never found," Sam said hopefully.

"Yeah, I did," Al said.

"If you were going to leave town, you'd take your own car, right? Especially if you didn't have a lot of money." Sam asked.

"Yeah, of course," Al replied. "I'd get on I-40 over there, or maybe I-35, and drive. She didn't take a plane because then her car would've been found at the airport."

"Unless you car had brake problems and it wasn't safe to drive," Sam explained. "Security's probably pretty good at the airport, especially after the disaster here. Where's the bus station?"

Al pulled the handlink from his pocket and punched in the request. "A few blocks that way," he said pointing to the southwest. He turned to look at traffic for a moment. "Sam, that was Bud's car."

"He's not used to driving downtown," Sam said in an offhand tone. "He probably got turned around getting out of here."

"Looked to me like he was giving you the hairy eyeball," Al told him.

"Great," Sam said sarcastically. "He probably thinks I'm crazy, talking to thin air."

"Well, it would help if you didn't wave your arms around when you talk!" Al said. He mimicked Sam's actions, his cigar leaving trails of smoke like a visual diagram.

Sam sighed. "Just tell me where the bus station is."

Al pointed straight ahead. "Go down to the corner there, that's Hudson. Take a left and walk four blocks to Sheridan. You'll see it on your right, corner of Sheridan and Walker."

"Thanks, meet you there. In the meantime see if you can find out the make and model, and maybe the tag number for me."

Sam set off walking while Al disappeared. The walk didn't take long, and Al had been right, the bus station was easy to spot with all the buses parked along its side. The buff brick building looked to have been built in the early 60's; the front façade was black granite and lots of glass, including a curved corner made of ice-block glass. Sam followed the signs to the parking area and spotted Al waving at him amidst the cars.

"Right here, Sam," Al said. "You were right! A 1991 Ford Probe, white. License plate matches. This one's Sarah's car."

Sam eyed the car, looking for answers. It looked to be in pretty good condition; there were no dents or big scratches, though it was a little hard to tell as the rear wheels had thrown streaks of mud along the back end. "That mud's _red_, Al!"

"You're in Oklahoma, Sam," Al replied. "This is the home of the Red Earth Festival, the dirt around here's all red like that. High iron content."

"For a minute there I thought maybe it was dried blood," Sam said. He walked around the car but saw nothing that caught his attention. He put his hands against the passenger window to block the glare and peered inside.

"Al, the key's in the ignition!" he cried. He strode around the car to the driver's side, grabbed the door handle and lifted. The door opened and a pinging commenced to remind them to take the key before shutting the door. Sam slipped into the driver's seat and turned the key; the car started.

"So she took the bus," Al said. "That still doesn't tell us where she went, or why."

"I think it _does_ tell us what happened to the car, though," Sam said. "I think she left it here with the key in it hoping it would be stolen so no one could track her down."

"That could explain it," Al said. "Someone stole it and drove it as far as they could until the brakes failed. But why's it still here now? Why didn't they take it already?"

"There's too much activity around here right now, must've scared them off," Sam said. "The search teams are going through the Murrah Building day and night, and they've set up bright lights all around it to help them. Plus, the National Guard is patrolling the area."

"I'd buy that," Al said. "So originally some guy came in here tomorrow evening and took the car, headed north, and dumped it at the university when the brakes went out."

Sam shut the engine off, got out and locked the car. "I'm gonna go talk to the people at the bus station," he said.

"They don't know anything, or they'd have told the cops!" Al said.

"The police didn't find the car, they didn't know she'd taken the bus," Sam replied reasonably.

"Give 'em some credit, Sam," Al said. "They know their job, they'd have checked the airport and bus station as a matter of procedure. Even if they didn't find the car they'd have checked the passenger lists and shown her picture around. Maybe she left the car here just to thrown 'em off track. You're wasting your time."

"You got any better ideas?" Sam asked. When Al reluctantly shook his head 'no' Sam said, "It's all I've got right now. Maybe it'll turn up something."

"OK, I'll go back and have Ziggy go over things again, maybe she'll find something," Al said.

Ten minutes later Sam had to admit to himself that Al had been right. The ticket seller at the bus station hadn't been of any help. He'd been hesitant to look at the passenger lists for Wednesday since Sam was neither a relative nor a policeman. When he'd finally agreed, Sarah's name wasn't on any of them. The man had patiently explained that the station was busy and he couldn't possibly remember whether any particular person had been there two days ago. He had offered a printed schedule of the bus routes for the day, which Sam took even though he doubted it could possibly be of any help.

Nevertheless he had that feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was close and decided not to play at being 'Joe' today. Instead he went back to Sarah's car and drove it to Bud's house. At least he had wheels now.

All the way there he talked to himself trying to think through what might have happened, without any success. He let himself in the house and stood in the living room wondering what to do. As he looked around the room he spied an old atlas in a bookshelf and pulled it out. It was copyrighted 1985. "What the hell," he muttered to himself. "The towns haven't moved, they're still where they were ten years ago."

He sat down on the couch and opened the atlas to Oklahoma, spreading it out on the coffee table so he could read it easier. He pulled the bus schedule out of his pocket and began checking off the destinations against the map. He figured he could ignore any bus that left before 1:00 PM as Sarah wouldn't have had time to get to the station before then. He didn't think she would hang around for a long time, but that still left several buses she could've taken. The problem was that they all seemed to go in different directions, and he had no idea which way she was headed. He remembered a bus trip he'd once taken somewhere in the deep south, and hoped Sarah's wasn't as long or uncomfortable. Then again, she wouldn't have been wearing a poodle skirt and full petticoat in 1995.

Sam's eye was caught by the red line representing Interstate 40 that Al had mentioned. Idly he traced its route with a finger. The western part of the state was more sparsely populated, but as he looked over the town names one jumped out at him. Cottondale. Where had he heard that name before? Sounded like a little burg, hadn't Bud said that was where Sarah was born?

Sam stood up and began pacing around the room. Sarah's parents were dead, and her older half-siblings had long ago moved away. There would be no reason for her to return to her hometown. But some thought gnawed at the edges of Sam's mind, he'd seen that name somewhere else, and recently. Had it been at Sarah's house last night? Somehow that didn't feel right, which pretty much left Bud's house.

As he thought about it he decided he'd seen the name on a book. He went back to the bookshelf thinking maybe he'd noticed it when he'd taken the atlas. No, that wasn't it. Where else did Bud keep books?

Suddenly Sam remembered, and ran into the spare bedroom where he'd been staying. He thought of another time when the answer he'd needed had been found in a box in the closet – would it work again? He picked up the top box from the stack, Bud's father's belongings. Bud had said that Sarah had been going through it. He set the box on the bed and began pulling out the contents one by one, tossing things onto the bed as he eliminated them. There it was! A 1935 high school yearbook from Cottondale.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Sam pushed things out of the way so he could sit down on the bed. He opened the yearbook and began paging through it. The most logical explanation was that Bud's father had graduated from Cottondale High in 1935, though he could've kept it for some other reason. Maybe it'd been his wife's. No, in the senior class section there was a picture of one Jess Luckinbill, who certainly resembled Bud.

Out of curiosity Sam kept flipping pages. His eye was caught by an obviously-posed picture of two smiling students working in the school library. The caption read, "Jess Luckinbill and Molly Deason put new books in place."

"_Where is Al when you need him_?" Sam thought. Hastily he tossed the items back into the box and returned it to the stack. The yearbook he took with him as he headed for the phone in the living room. Unfortunately Directory Assistance wasn't very helpful; there were no Luckinbills, Guilfords, or even Deasons listed in Cottondale. Still, Sam felt sure the answer lay somewhere in that town.

He took another quick look at the map to commit it to memory, then locked up the house and got in the car. As he backed out of the driveway it suddenly occurred to him that it wouldn't make an hour-plus trip without the risk of the brakes going out. He let it idle in the street for a minute while he thought the situation over. The chances of his Swiss cheese memory bringing up the knowledge of how to replace a master cylinder were slim, and somehow he felt time was of the essence.

He made up his mind and took off. A few minutes later he pulled into Sarah's driveway, got out and locked the car. Dick was out smoking on his front porch and waved to Sam. Sam crossed the street and explained that he needed to borrow Dick's car, though he didn't go into all the details. Dick was reluctant to make the loan, even to help Sarah, and only acquiesced when Sam offered to bring it back with the tank full.

Dick's "car" turned out to be a '54 Chevy pickup truck; the chrome on the distinctive "parrot beak" grill was flaking, the red paint was chalky with age, but the engine ran like a top. Sam reflected that Leaping allowed him to drive a lot of different vehicles, so it took him only a second to get the hang of the clutch and three-on-the-tree shifter. He waved to Dick as he headed off down the street.

An hour and a half later Sam saw the sign indicating the turn-off for Cottondale. He noticed that the state highway wasn't maintained as well as the interstate, the ride was quite bumpy especially in the old truck. Thankfully he didn't have to put up with it for too long before he saw the town up ahead.

He'd been right to picture a small town, and the highway ran right through the middle of it. Though the posted speed limit decreased at the city limits, there was only one stoplight. As he waited for it to turn green he looked the town over. In many ways it reminded him of small towns he'd known in Indiana. It appeared to be a farming community, and one that had definitely seen better days. The buildings along Main Street were a mix of stolid red brick and native sandstone, and had probably been built close to a century ago.

He saw some of the town's original businesses: bank, post office, feed and grocery stores. He could still see the faint remains of a painted "Dry Goods" sign on the brick over the clothing store. There were also more recent enterprises such as a beauty parlor, video arcade, and movie-rental shop. He well knew that there wasn't much to do in a town this size, so it shouldn't come as any surprise that the electronics age had crept in to occupy the kids' time. Several of the storefronts were empty, their dingy fly-specked windows showing an interior stripped of display cases and/or furniture so that he couldn't tell what they'd once housed. He spotted a café up ahead and decided it would be a good place to start, though the Dairy Freeze on the outskirts of town was tempting.

When the light turned green Sam drove forward slowly, looking for an available parking place. Cars were parked in an angled row in the center of the street between the two lanes of traffic. The business section was small enough that this made sense; you didn't have to walk more than two blocks to reach any establishment there. He parked and got out of the car, wiping sweat from his face. The truck didn't have air conditioning, and it seemed hotter here in the middle of nowhere.

Jewel's Café was in a small separate building at the end of the business district. Signs on the big front window advertised plate lunches, BBQ, chicken-fried steak, and pan-fried catfish. Coffee, sweet tea, and ice-cold beer were available to drink. In an upper corner the words "Air-conditioned" were embellished with painted snow mounded atop the letters and dripping down them.

Sam held the door open for an older woman on her way out. The way she said, "Thank you kindly, young man" caused him to tip an imaginary hat in response. That old-fashioned courtesy netted a smile from her. He walked inside and was instantly hit with a sense of déjà vu.

To his left was a lunch counter; in front of it was a row of round stools covered in red vinyl, while a large mirror on the wall behind it reflected the rest of the establishment. That consisted of a dozen booths with their one-legged tables and a scattering of small tables in the center. For an instant Sam stood frozen, thinking of the consequences that taking a seat at the counter in Red Dog, Louisiana had sparked. Then he realized that the customers here represented at least three ethnic backgrounds that he could easily discern, and nobody was giving him a second glance.

He took a seat at the end of the counter and picked up one of the menus that had been stuck between the napkin holder and ketchup bottle. It consisted of a single typewritten page laminated in plastic, and a quick look at the items offered showed most of them to be deep-fried. The veggies were mostly fried, too – potatoes, green tomatoes, and okra. He'd pass on the okra.

The waitress wandered over and inquired, "Y'all want coffee or tea today?" The name-tag on her pink-and-white uniform read "Suzie".

"Too hot for coffee," Sam replied. "But iced tea sounds great."

"I'll get that right out to you, Hon," Suzie said. "You just passin' through?" She laughed a little self-consciously. "Sorry, don't mean to be rude. We don't get much trade from offa the highway."

"Actually I was looking for information on someone that used to live here a long time ago," Sam told her.

"I haven't lived here all that long myself," she commented. "Moved here about five years ago after Mama passed on. Kinda drifted around for awhile and ended up working here 'cause I needed some money. This's home now, I like it here. Y'all ready to order?"

"I'll have the Number 3 plate-lunch with, uh, green beans and corn," he responded.

"Y'all want gravy on that meatloaf?"

"No thanks," Sam said.

Suzie turned to the work-area behind her and filled a large red-plastic glass with ice and tea. She set in down in front of Sam on her way to take an order at one of the booths. Sam took a big gulp and made a face. "I'd forgotten how much sugar they put in this stuff!" he said quietly to himself. Nevertheless, the tea was cold and refreshing so he drank it down while waiting for lunch and trying to figure out where to go next.

A few minutes later Sam was looking out the window, absorbed in his thoughts, when Suzie whizzed by and grabbed the empty glass. He didn't notice she'd re-filled it until she returned it saying," I'm sorry Hon, but it's gonna be a few more minutes on that meatloaf."

"Huh? Oh, that's OK," he told her.

"You wanna talk to someone's been here forever, you go on over and have a chat with Red," Suzie said, nodding her head at the man occupying the front booth. "He just got here, and I remembered what you'd said," she added.

Sam thanked her, stood up and approached the booth where Red was busy stirring even _more_ sugar into his glass of tea. He was an old man, with a seamed and weather-beaten face sporting about three days' growth of beard. He had on well-worn denim overalls and a faded plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. What hair he had left was iron-grey, making it impossible to tell if it had once been the genesis of the nickname. He was a short scrappy-looking fellow whose shoulders and arms still retained a good deal of muscle; the kind you got from working hard all your life.

"Excuse me sir, could I talk with you for a minute?" Sam asked politely.

Red tapped his spoon against the top of the glass to shake off the excess liquid and said, "What can I do for you, Sonny?"

"I'm looking for someone who knew Sarah Guilford," he explained.

"Lord a mercy!" Red exclaimed. "I ain't heard of her in years, now. She left town, oh, musta been twenty-five years or more."

"You knew her?" Sam asked eagerly.

"Shore did," Red said. "Purty little thing. Not 'sprised she moved on, what with the way her mama treated her. She doin' all right these days?"

"Well, no, not really," Sam said. "She's, uh, she's in a little trouble and I'm trying to help her out."

Red gestured to the empty seat in front of him. "Well, don't just stand there jawin', sit yerself down young feller and let's see if I kin help you. What's yer name, anyway?"

Sam sat down and offered to shake hands. "I'm Joe Smithfield," he said.

"Red Matthews," he said as he shook Sam's hand. "You got a purty good grip for a city slicker. Whatcha do for a livin', if'n you don't mind my askin'."

"I'm, uh, a lawyer." It had taken Sam a second to remember what Joe did. "How about yourself?"

"Worked down to the cotton gin when I were a young man," Red replied. "It closed down some years back. Nowadays I got a little patch of land, I farm it just nuff to take care of myself. It gives me somthin' to do with my time, and I don't seem to feel the need for as many _things_ now that I'm an old cuss. You prob'ly think I'm crazy as a loon."

Sam smiled; he found he liked Red's independent spirit. "No sir, I don't think you're crazy," he said. "My father was a farmer; I respect a man that works hard and takes care of himself."

Red's laugh sounded more like a cackle, but he was clearly pleased. "Well said, Joe. I 'preciate that."

Suzie interrupted briefly to serve their lunch. "Y'all need anything else?"

They both assured her they were fine, and began eating. Sam was pleasantly surprised at how good the meatloaf was.

"Now, just what kin I do fer you?" Red said around a mouthful of food. "I'd be proud to he'p Miss Sarah if'n I can, but I ain't rightly sure what yer a wantin'."

"I think maybe if you could just tell me about her family, that might help," Sam told him. "Why'd she leave town? You said her mother didn't treat her very well?"

Red shoveled another bite into his mouth and chewed while he thought over what to say. "She shore din't. Now, understand, she din't _beat_ her or nothin' like that." He paused to scoop up another bite and shook his head. "Sarah's mama - Molly's her name - was _mean_, real strict-like, sour on account a her own sitchyation. She'd had a rough life and din't see why anyone else should have it easy, 'specially her daughter."

"What situation, what happened to her?" Sam asked.

"She drove her own husband away, that's what happened!" Red explained. "Then she acted all high and mighty about it, went around town tellin' everyone he'd been the one what left her."

"She was mean to him, too?" Sam asked.

"Well now, I wouldn't doubt that," Red said thoughtfully. "But that ain't what I'm talkin' about. You ever see how a cotton gin works?"

Sam frowned a little at the sudden change of topic. "No, I never thought about it."

"There's this whole gang of round saw blades, see, bunch of 'em all spinnin' together on a shaft. Then there's these metal bars that fit in between them blades. They're curved-like, kinda like a skinny letter "S", so's they fit over the shaft and stick up outta the top and bottom of them saws. They're close't enough together that them cotton seeds cain't fit through 'em."

"OK, I'm with you so far," Sam said, mentally picturing the machine being described.

"Now outside the buildin' there's this big pipe, you see. You pull a wagonload of cotton under the pipe and it sucks the cotton up into the pipe. Way up high in a tower, 'cause the gin's a purty big machine." Red gestured with his hands as he talked.

"Inside, now, the seed cotton comes down the pipe and it gets pushed around some big rollers, with long fingers on 'em. Kinda like combin' yer hair, them fingers run through the raw cotton and comb out the trash; cotton bolls, weeds, stuff like that there," Red continued.

"But not the seeds," Sam said.

"Nope. Once't it's been cleaned, the cotton lint gets fed into the gin stand. It gets caught in the teeth of them saw blades but the seeds, see, cain't get through them there bars so they get squeezed out."

"Then all you have to do is have some brushes to remove the lint from the saw blades and you're done!" Sam said.

"Eggzactly," Red agreed. "The cotton goes on out to the baler. The farmer, he gets his cotton ready for sale, and the gin makes some kinda deal for the seeds, to turn 'em into cottonseed oil."

"OK, I understand how it works, but what's it got to do with Molly?" Sam asked in confusion.

"It was the accy-dent that done it," Red supplied.

Sam was getting frustrated with Red's disjointed tale. "_What_ accident, and what did it do?"

"Well, see, Molly's husband was a foreman down to the gin," Red began. "And gins, they's dangerous places. All them saws and gears and them belts what drive the gears, a man kin get hurt real bad if'n he ain't careful."

"Are you saying that her husband was injured and couldn't work and, and…um, this would be the late 40's, right? So he didn't have a job and she couldn't get one because women weren't supposed to work back then, so she made him feel so ashamed that he left her?" Sam asked.

"No, tweren't like that at all," Red said. "It were another man, got caught up in all them belts and gears and he was kilt. Tore up somethin' awful, he was. But the foreman, see, he felt like it were his fault that the man got kilt."

"How in the world could it be his fault?" asked Sam.

"It weren't. Man was a fool, he'd been warned about gettin' too close to them gears, it were his own fault. But see, the foreman, he'd done the warnin' so he felt guilty."

"I guess I can understand that," Sam said. "It happened on his watch and he'd warned the man to be careful, so he felt responsible. What happened then?"

"He done decided he couldn't work there no more," Red told him. "But, see, there weren't no other jobs 'round here so he tells Molly he's got to go to Oklahoma City 'cause he can find work there."

"So?"

"Now Molly's a God-fearin' woman, and she won't have no truck with that. She down-right re-fused to move to that sinful big city, as she called it. Reg'lar den of iniquity she thought it was. He didn't feel he had no choice, he went on by hisself. Folks 'round here felt she shoulda gone with him, bein' his wife an' all."

"But Molly didn't see it that way," Sam concluded. "She thought he should have taken her feelings into consideration and stayed here. She really felt like he'd left her, when it was the other way around. Obviously she got married again, and had Sarah."

"Yep, she did," Red agreed. "Fellah by the name of John Guilford worked down to the gin too, guess he felt kinda sorry fer her – and besides, she had that ol' house out in the country. It weren't much, but she owned it free and clear so he figgered it'd be a purty good deal even with her kids. They was nearly growed and wouldn't be underfoot for long. He took right up with Molly. 'Sprised everyone when Sarah was born, they musta got started afore the weddin'. Wouldn't a thought Molly woulda stood fer that, guess she was desperate to get herself another man."

"Sarah said her mama's first husband had died, so I guess that must've happened after he moved to the big city?"

"Died? Not that I heared of!" Red said. "Oh, Molly, she let on like that's what happened. She'd say things like 'when he left us' or 'after he went away', like that, but we all knew the truth and she just done that to make herself feel righteous."

Suddenly Sam felt another puzzle-piece fall into place, maybe the last one if he was right. "What was his name?" he asked.

"Oh, din't I say? Jess were his name. Jess Luckinbill."

Sam nodded to himself, thinking he now knew the reason Sarah had run away. But proving it might be difficult – and in any case it didn't put him any nearer to finding where Sarah had gone.

"Red, I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Luckinbill passed away just a few months ago," Sam told him.

"Izzat so? I'm purely sorry to hear that," Red said, shaking his head. "Jess were a good man, and I hope he had him a good life. I shore wouldn't wanna be the one what gives the news to Molly, though. She'd tear yer head off just 'cause you brung her the bad news."

"_Molly_!" Sam gasped the name in surprise. "I thought Molly died just after Sarah left town!"

"No sir, Molly she's still alive and kickin'," Red said with a chuckle. "'Twere ol' John what died afore Miss Sarah left. Molly's still a livin' in that old house out south a town. She gets one a them Social See-curity checks ev'ry month and puts up the veg'tables from her garden and gets by somehow. Still he'ps out at the church, too. Folks try to he'p her out when they can outta Christian charity, but I've heared some of 'em say she'd try the patience of a saint. She cain't just say 'thankee' and be done with it, no, she's gotta whine to 'em about why the Good Lord ain't done better by her. Why, I remember once't…"

"Red!" Sam said a little harshly to get the man's attention. "I need to talk to Molly. I tried to call before I came out here, but there wasn't any listing for anyone named "Guilford". Please tell me where she lives."

"Huh? Oh, sorry 'bout that, I get carried away sometimes," Red said. "It's nice to talk to someone I ain't knowed all a my life. I could tell you lots more stories if'n you'd like. And no, Molly ain't got no phone and she ain't got no TV, neither. She's got her a radio, though."

_"She's off the grid, that's why Ziggy didn't find her,_" Sam thought. Aloud he said, "Just tell me how to find her house."


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The old truck bounced down a deeply-rutted dirt road. Sam was still amazed at the red color of the dirt, even as he fought the wheel to keep the truck in the middle of the track. There were ditches on either side of the road to handle run-off during the rainy season; at the moment they were green with grasses and weeds just sprouting after winter. Fields were marked off by barbed-wire strung on skinny lengths of tree trunk, or maybe branches. Some of the fence posts were twisted and bent, and sometimes the three strands of wire sagged between them.

He could see freshly plowed fields covered with the green fuzz of new growth, though it was too early yet to tell what crop had been planted. Cows moved languidly through some of the fields and one held a herd of horses, the young colts and fillies running with tails held high just for the sheer pleasure of it. Tall black-jack oaks grew along the fence-line, shading the lane from the hot sun. This was a pleasant place, Sam thought. The people were friendly; Red had been almost embarrassed when Sam had paid for his lunch, though he'd accepted gratefully.

Al popped in, appearing to sit in the passenger seat. The truck's stiff suspension didn't seem to affect him. "Sam! What're you doing out here in the boonies? You're supposed to be looking for Sarah!"

"I _am_ looking for Sarah," Sam replied. "I'm on my way to talk to her mother. She's not dead, Sarah must've wanted to cut all ties so she just told people that."

"You don't know where Sarah is?" Al asked in a panicked tone.

"No, but I think I know why she left so suddenly," Sam replied. "See, I think…"

"It doesn't matter _why_, if you don't find her soon she's gonna _die_!"

Sam had to concentrate on driving for a minute as the truck ran over a rough area where recent rains had created a washboard effect. He darted a glance at Al and said, "I thought you said there was no trace of her, alive _or_ dead."

"I had Ziggy take another look at the unidentified bodies," Al said. "There's one in the Texas panhandle that matches the description; height, weight, hair color – and she was wearing a green sweater."

"Like the one Bud said was her favorite," Sam said grimly. "Why didn't the police identify the body?"

"Different jurisdictions, Sam," Al said in explanation. "Sheriffs in some of these little towns, they don't have the resources that a police department in a big city would. And this was way over in west Texas, so they probably never thought to check with the authorities in Oklahoma."

"Is Ziggy sure it's Sarah? A green sweater, a lot of people have green sweaters, that's not unique."

"Yeah, Ziggy's sure," Al said. "She compared the dental charts on file in both cases. It's Sarah. And Sam, you gotta hurry because according to the coroner in Texas she's killed sometime _tonight_."

Sam relaxed a little on hearing that. "Then we've got a little time, Al. It'd take her several hours to get all the way to west Texas. What do you know about the circumstances of her death?"

"No, no, no, Sam. She could already _be_ in Texas by now," Al corrected. "We don't know when she got there or even if that's where she was killed. The police report only says the body was found at a rest stop along I-40. You know, one of those little places on the side of the road with half a dozen concrete picnic tables and a restroom. She was strangled to death."

"You're right, Al," Sam said. "She could've been killed anywhere, and her body dumped at the rest stop. I just can't figure out how she went from riding a bus to the rest stop. You couldn't strangle someone on a bus, the other passengers would notice. And, and, and…a bus driver has a regular route to follow, he'd stop at a diner maybe, but not at a little place at the side of the road like that."

"Maybe she met someone on the bus," Al supplied. "When they got wherever they were going he offered her a ride to a motel, then he killed her and dumped the body."

Sam slowed the truck at the top of a hill so he could read the name on the mailbox beside the road. The galvanized-steel box was grey and powdery from years of weathering the elements, but he could still make out the faint letters that spelled out "Guilford". He turned into the driveway.

"Sam, where are you going?" Al asked in surprise. "You don't have time to talk to the mother, you gotta find Sarah."

"But I think her mother might know where she is," Sam said reasonably. "Or at least where she might be going."

The house at the end of the long driveway was small and badly in need of repair. It was a two-story wooden structure that had once been painted white; big curls of paint had peeled up to reveal the warped and weathered lumber beneath. There was a large window on either side of the front door and two more windows on the second story, set squarely above the bottom ones. It looked rather like a child's drawing of a house Sam thought.

He could tell that the windows were open because he could see faded curtains stirring in the breeze blowing across the hilltop. The window screens were rusty, and the screen door hung at a slight angle. Sam parked the truck and got out. He didn't see a car or truck; someone from the church must pick her up for services.

He turned to take in the yard. Chickens pecked through the weeds and there was a rough pen to the side where several pigs lay in the dirt, sleeping away the afternoon. A lone large oak tree provided a bit of shade for the sagging wrap-around porch. On the other side of the driveway a huge old tractor tire lay on its side; it had been painted white, and the sidewall had been cut into triangles and turned outward like a fancy cuff. A few straggling geraniums grew in this homemade planter, adding a bit of color to the place.

Sam cautiously stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door frame. He was afraid if he knocked on the ancient screen door it would collapse.

Al said, "I'll go see if anybody's home." He melted through the rickety door and Sam could hear him inside the house calling out, "Hello? Is anyone here?"

Al popped in at the side of the house, pointing vigorously toward the back. "She's back there, Sam. The mother, I mean; I didn't see Sarah. She's working in the garden."

Sam walked around the side of the house to see a big garden area fenced in with rusty hog wire. There were neat rows of vegetables just coming up; some ran under lengths of wire supported at intervals by wooden stakes, and he could see twists of cloth left from where last year's bushy crop had been tied to the wire. An old hose snaked through the garden, dribbling water to one corner.

Sam approached the gate and called out, "Mrs. Guilford? Mrs. Guilford, could I talk with you for a minute?"

Molly Guilford was in the process of vigorously hoeing weeds, her back to the gate. She kept on working, calling over her shoulder, "Got to keep ahead of these weeds, or they'll take over. You come on in here, you want to talk to me."

Sam did as instructed. Molly was an old woman, thin as a rail, clad in a colorless and shapeless dress and wearing heavy leather shoes that were caked with red dirt. She wore an old-fashioned sun bonnet with a wide curved bill that kept the sun off her face, and Sam could see wisps of snow-white hair peeking out from under the edges. She paused in her efforts, leaning on the hoe, to peer up at him through thick-lensed glasses.

"Who're you, young man?" she asked truculently. "If you're up to no good, I can take care of myself." She brandished the hoe to prove her point.

Al appeared, looking excited but keeping quiet for the moment.

She looked crazy, Sam thought. He wondered how well she could see, even with the glasses. He was reminded of another time when a crazy old lady had threatened him with a weapon, and a daughter had been involved then too. "Millie – uh, Molly Guilford? My name's Joe Smithfield," Sam told her. "I need to talk to you about your daughter."

"I ain't got a daughter," Molly replied. She began hoeing weeds again, working with short, vicious chops as if angry.

Sam knew she wasn't mad at the weeds. "You have a daughter named Sarah. She's in danger, Mrs. Guilford. I need to know where she is."

"Ain't seen that one in years," Molly said gruffly. "Ain't seen none of 'em in years. They all up and left me."

"No, she's lying, Sam," Al contradicted her statement. "There's two plates and cups and forks in the dish drainer on the kitchen counter. Sarah was here for lunch."

"Sarah was here this morning, wasn't she?" Sam asked. "The two of you had a fight and she left. That's why you're so angry, isn't it Mrs. Guilford?"

Molly continued chopping at the weeds, deliberately bringing the hoe down close to Sam's foot so he'd move away. "The Bible says to forgive and forget, I done that. No reason to bring it all up again."

"There is if you lied to Sarah," Sam said meaningfully.

Molly stopped work to lean on the hoe; she was panting and sweat was running down her seamed face. "Lyin's a sin," she said plainly. "I've never told a lie in all my born days."

"There's no difference in telling a lie and not telling the truth," Sam told her. "Just because you twist the words around to make something _sound_ true, doesn't mean it happened that way."

"People believe what they want to," Molly said. She went back to work with the hoe, but with less energy now. "You know so goll-darned much, what did I say that wasn't true?"

"For starters, that your first husband left you," Sam said. "You _chose_ to stay here _knowing_ your husband couldn't face working at the gin any longer."

"He was weak, else he'd of stayed and done what he ought to by me and the kids," she said.

"Just because you want to believe that, it doesn't make it true. But then you compounded the lie by pretending he'd died. Except that he hadn't, not until just a few months ago. I'm sorry to have to tell you, but Jess Luckinbill died early this year."

Molly looked up at that. "Well, he's dead now. Good riddance, I say. Why would my daughter have cared about that, one way or t'other?"

"Because he's her father," Sam said. "And you never told her that. You let her believe John Guilford was her father, and that her real father was dead. You never even told her the man's _name_."

"Geez, Sam, I get it now!" Al exclaimed. "Sarah is Bud's half-sister!"

"She must've seen the yearbook and figured it out," Sam said to Al.

"Speak up! What kind a book is it you're talkin' about?" Molly asked.

"I've got Jess' high school yearbook in the truck," Sam replied. "Look, it's a long story Mrs. Guilford, but Sarah found that book and she needed to know the truth, if Jess was really her father."

"Well, it don't make no never-mind now," Molly said. "John might's well have been her daddy."

"But it _does_ make a difference," Sam said. "Because Jess re-married and had a son, Bud. Sarah thought she was falling in love with Bud. _Now_ do you see why it's important?"

Molly's body suddenly sagged and she might have fallen if she hadn't clung to the handle of the hoe. "Oh, Lordy! Why didn't she just tell me that?"

Sam took the woman's arm and guided her to a shady spot in the garden, helping her to sit down. "Why don't you just sit here and rest," he suggested.

"We don't have time for this," Al reminded. "She's admitted that Sarah was here, you've gotta get her to tell you where she went, and when she left."

Molly took off the bonnet, folded it in half and began fanning her face with it. "I just wanted 'em all to love me," she said sadly. "Not a one of 'em would. They all up and left me, left me all alone to fend for myself. Why'd they go and do that, anyway? I only wanted what was best for 'em."

Sam crouched down beside her. "Not everyone agrees on what's best," he told her gently. "When you love someone you sometimes have to let them do what they want, otherwise it becomes a smothering love. Why did you think it was best for Sarah to believe John was her father?"

Molly sighed heavily. "I didn't want her to know her daddy done left her like that. John was a good man, he took care of us both, I wanted to believe he was her daddy, not Jess."

"Did Jess know you were expecting when he left?" Sam asked.

"No sir, he didn't," she replied. "I didn't, neither. Not until after he'd gone."

"I bet she tried to hang on to Jess the only way she knew how," Al suggested. "She couldn't _talk_ him into staying here, so she offered to be a wife he'd want to stay with. She probably considered it her duty."

"Did you finally tell Sarah the truth?" Sam asked.

"No, I didn't," Molly answered. "But just after lunch we had us a real set-to. She asked me about it one more time, and called me a liar when I said John was her daddy. She picked up that bag of hers and walked right out a the house."

"Where'd she go?" Al asked frantically.

"I went on upstairs to tidy up her room," Molly continued. "That's when I saw one a my dresser drawers wasn't shut good. That's the one where I kep' all my important papers. She'd had a good look through 'em, too, they was all out of order. There ain't nothin' there that says for sure, but I guess she done figgered it out by the dates. Oh Sweet Jesus, I wish now I'd a told her the truth."

"Did she say where she was going when she left?" asked Sam.

"She just said she wanted to get as far away from me as she could," Molly replied. "Said she'd catch a ride down on the highway and she didn't care where she went."

"Hitch-hiking!" Al cried. "That's what happened to her, Sam. She got a ride with some psycho who took her to Texas and killed her. You gotta get to the highway and find her before she thumbs a ride."

Sam had a sudden vivid memory of standing beside a road with his thumb out in the classic pose, and watching a car whiz right past him. "Maybe she won't have any better luck than I did," he muttered to himself.

"Mrs. Guilford, this is important," Sam told Molly. "When did Sarah leave?"

"I come straight out here to hoe weeds after I shut that drawer," she replied. "I was mad, and figgered a little hard work would settle me down. Couldn't a been more than fifteen minutes afore you showed up."

"Do you know what route would she have taken to get to the highway?"

Molly pointed towards the road in front of the house. "Quickest way would be to walk on down the road there," she said. "Take her 30-40 minutes, I'd say."

"Come on, Sam," Al urged. "We can catch up to her, but you gotta get going!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Guilford," Sam said. "Would you like me to help you to the house? You've had a bad shock, and I don't feel right about leaving you here in the garden."

"Sa-am! We don't have time for this," Al said. "Sarah's running out of time!"

Sam got Molly inside her house as quickly as he could. He got her settled on the faded old couch and brought her a glass of water. Nor could he resist complying with her request for her Bible, though Al continued to loudly exhort him to hurry. Sam had a feeling she'd be reading up on several passages and thinking hard on their true meaning.

He finally got the truck out on the road with Al riding shotgun. "Molly said 30 to 40 minutes," Al said. "We don't know exactly when Sarah left, but if you hurry maybe you can catch up to her before she gets to the highway."

Sam drove as fast as he could down the rutted road.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Bud came home from work Friday evening to find Sam sitting on the couch watching the news on TV. "Hey, Joe. What're you doing home so early?"

Sam smiled and hooked a thumb in the general direction of the television set. "I was just catching up on the latest developments. Good news! The FBI has arrested a man for the bombing."

"Really?" Bud asked, astonished. "They just released those drawings this morning, and they've already found him? That's _great_!"

Sam chuckled, glad for once that he could safely use a little of his future knowledge. Though he'd only just heard the headline when Bud had walked in, thanks to Al he knew the details. "He's been in jail since shortly after the explosion; seems it blew the tag off his car and the Highway Patrol thought it might be stolen so they arrested him. I'll bet the FBI was sure surprised to find him already in custody."

"They get the other fellow, too?" Bud asked.

"No, um, not yet," Sam said carefully.

"So how come you're here already? You high-powered lawyer-types take Friday afternoons off?"

"I had some things to take care of," Sam said.

"How'd you get here? Guess you haven't got your car yet, I didn't see one in the drive," Bud said.

"Oh, a friend brought me," Sam told him. "I just got here a little while ago."

Bud walked over to the recliner and plopped down with a sigh, pushing back so the foot rest came up. "Good to be home," he said. "Let me just rest a few minutes, then I'll start calling again about Sarah."

"Why don't you wait awhile before you do that," Sam suggested. "You can always make those calls later, if you need to."

Bud looked at him quizzically; he leaned forward to pick up the remote control, aimed it at the TV and hit the "off" button. The room was suddenly quiet without the reporters' voices in the background. The silence stretched for a couple of minutes. Sam was just beginning to wonder if there was a problem when Bud spoke.

"Where did you say you were from, Joe?" Bud asked sharply.

There was definitely a problem. "I've, uh, kinda Leaped around from place to place," Sam responded.

"But where were you _born_?" Bud insisted.

Sam was getting nervous. If his plan worked he'd Leap out of here soon and hopefully the real Joe would get back to his own life without Bud being any the wiser. The truth would have to suffice. "Indiana," he said. "I was born in Indiana."

"How old are you?" Bud continued the third degree.

"I'm 41," he said, thinking he would have been that age in April of 1995.

"Which made you eleven in 1965 when the Watts riot happened. How does an eleven-year-old white kid from Indiana get caught up in that?" Bud asked with an edge to his voice.

Sam heard the Imaging Chamber door open and saw Al step out. Good! Now maybe he'd be able to give Bud some answers that made sense.

"Twelve, actually," Sam replied. "I turned twelve just before the Watts riot happened. It's kind of a long story, but I can tell you that those people needed help, and badly enough that most of them didn't care about the color of my skin."

"Watts!" Al cried. "What're you doing telling him about the time you were in _Watts_?"

"It wasn't exactly my idea," Sam said quietly, meaning it for Al's ears.

"I _bet_ it wasn't!" Bud said. "That must've been plenty scary for a kid. You probably wanted to get out of there as fast as you could and never go back after what you must've seen."

"Oh, good," Al said. "He thinks it was _Joe_ in L.A. in '65, that's better."

"Oh, well, yeah," Sam blathered. "I got out of there as soon as I could. I've been back a couple of times, it's changed a lot since then."

"Did you go back to help someone else?" Bud asked.

"Of course he did, that's what he _does_," Al said, using his cigar to make a visual point.

"There's always someone who could use help of one kind or another," Sam said a bit airily.

"Sounds to me like you run into more than your share," Bud remarked. Then in an apparent complete change of subject, "How did you say you were related to the Becketts?"

"Sam, what's going on here? Why's he asking you all these questions?" Al asked with evident concern.

"I'm not sure," Sam told Al.

"You're not sure, but you remember their old family recipe for griddle-cakes." Bud was not asking a question.

"Well, you know how it is." Sam spread his hands in a gesture of confusion. "I remembered the recipe because they were _good_. I, uh…"

"Tell him it was your Great Aunt Matilda's recipe," Al suggested. "Everyone's got a great aunt they didn't know very well."

"Yeah, you know, I just remembered, now that you asked," Sam began. "It was my Aunt Matilda, my, um, my grandmother's sister. She married a Beckett."

Bud cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "You ever been to Pine County here in Oklahoma?"

"Al…have to think about that," Sam said.

"Yeah you have, Sam," Al told him. "I guess you don't remember. Hell, I wish _I_ didn't remember that Leap! That was the time that Leon Stiles escaped from PQL, and shot me when I tried to get him back."

Sam turned his head slightly towards Al and raised both eyebrows in a silent question. "When," he mouthed.

"When? Let me think," Al said, taking a puff from his cigar to aid his memory. "Oh, I remember now! That was 1958."

"You know, I think I was there when I was a little boy," Sam said with relief. "My folks moved around a lot," he added.

"You know anyone called Gooshie?" Bud asked.

"Gooshie!" Sam and Al said together.

"Sam, how does Bud know all this stuff?" Al asked. He gave Sam an accusatory look. "You didn't tell him who you _are_ did you?"

"No," Sam said hastily.

"Because you can't do that," Al continued. "You know the rules. You have to pretend to be Joe Smithfield."

"Then how about an Al?" Bud queried.

"Oh, yeah, I've got a good friend named Al," Sam answered easily. "What's with all the questions?"

"There was something about you that seemed funny, right from the start," Bud said. "You knew exactly what to do to help all those people, yet at other times you seemed so lost. Like you weren't exactly sure what you were doing here."

Al whipped out the handlink and began furiously pushing its buttons.

"Yeah, well, I've had some medical training, see. So I knew how to take care of the injuries," Sam said. "But it was just…so _overwhelming_, and I was so tired, so yeah, I guess I was feeling a little lost."

"You're a doctor, aren't you." Again, Bud made it a statement of fact.

"Why would you think that?" Sam asked, trying for innocence.

Bud leaned back in his chair, but kept eye contact with Sam. "When we were first married, my wife told me the craziest story. She _swore_ it was true, but I assumed it was something she'd made up, or maybe dreamed. Now I'm not so sure."

"Sam!" Al said. "His ex-wife is _Becky Pruitt_!"

"Becky Pruitt?" Sam echoed, clearly not remembering the name. "You, uh, you told me her name the other day," he finished.

"Yeah, Becky," Bud said. "When she was a little girl some crazy killer broke in and held her and her mother hostage. He tied 'em up and threatened to kill 'em."

"How horrible," Sam said. The name meant nothing to him. "Obviously he didn't kill them; Becky grew up and married you."

"You know he didn't," Bud told him. "Becky said suddenly the man changed, untied them and treated them nicely. He seemed particularly concerned about her, seemed to think she might die if he didn't change things. He insisted he wasn't this killer, but was a time-traveler from the future named Sam Beckett."

"Sam, Becky must've told him!" Al exclaimed. "This's never happened before." He looked at Sam in confusion. "Don't admit it's true!" he coached. He looked up at something Sam couldn't see. "Gooshie! What happens if someone recognizes Sam?" he yelled.

Sam managed an uncomfortable laugh; it wasn't difficult. "OK, but what's that got to do with me?"

"This Mr. Beckett Leaped around helping people," Bud said. "He said in this case his mission was to stop the sheriff from killing this Stiles in revenge for the death of his daughter, and to save her and her mother. She said he'd talk to people who weren't there, and called them Gooshie and Al. He was a doctor, and he knew things about the future that came true. He saved their lives."

"Oh, boy! That's quite a story, Bud," Sam said uneasily. The explanation had begun to bring back the memory of that Leap. "But it sounds like something a little girl would make up. An easy way to explain how she got out of a bad situation."

"I asked her mother about it once," Bud said. "Carol said it was all true. But she wouldn't talk about it much; she said a man like that can't go around telling everybody the truth because he'd spend so much time proving it that he couldn't do what he was there for."

"Somethin' like that," Sam muttered. Aloud he asked, "You don't think I'm this Sam Beckett, do you?" He managed a semi-convincing laugh.

"It would sure explain things," Bud told him. "Your, ah, medical knowledge, the places you've been, the way you seem to know what's going to happen sometimes."

"Ah, that's just a lucky guess!" Sam said. "Everybody gets it right sometimes."

"I've seen you talk to your friends from the future," Bud continued. "I've seen you wave your arms around and talk to someone who's not there. I heard you talking to Al last night at Sarah's house, you called him by name. Maybe he's even here right now, or the other one, Gooshie."

"Sam, this is getting _weird_," Al intoned. "He's figured out who you really are!"

"I _know_…that I talk to myself a lot," Sam explained. "It's a bad habit I have. But that doesn't mean I'm really talking to someone else! There's no one else here, just the two of us."

"It also explains why you don't talk about yourself," Bud said. "Because you're not "Joe" and you don't know very much about him."

"I'm a private kind of guy, that's all," Sam said with false bravado. "Nobody travels through time! Something happened to Becky a long time ago, something she didn't understand; she made up this story to explain it and her mother went along with it because she didn't want her little girl to think about all the evil in the world."

"Oh, that's good, Sam," Al verbally applauded. "You know, it _is_ pretty amazing that you'd run into somebody connected – even a little bit – to a past Leap."

"The crazy thing is, the facts fit so well with her story," Bud said.

"Look, Bud," Sam said seriously. "My name's Joe Smithfield. I'm a lawyer at Dancey, Parsons, Stanton, and Waters. I'm here because that bomb destroyed my apartment, and you've given me a place to stay out of the kindness of your heart. _You're_ the one who's helping _me_!"

Sam couldn't help darting a look at Al though he wasn't sure if he was asking for help, or reassurance that this was going to turn out all right.

Al shrugged. "Don't look at me. We're both still here, so I guess you haven't changed history enough to do any major damage. I hope."

Bud cracked a big smile. "It's OK, _Joe_. I get it. You can't admit it's really you. I'm not real sure _why_ because you don't have to prove it to me, I'm already convinced. I'm sure you have your reasons, so I'll go along with it."

Sam and Al both relaxed. Sam grinned and shook his head at Bud, as if to say "whatever". At that moment the doorbell rang, startling all three men. Bud looked at the front door in surprise.

"I don't need to be from the future to know who's at the door," Sam said in a shrewd voice. "Why don't you go let Sarah in."

Bud didn't seem to know whether to laugh or cry at seeing Sarah safe and sound. For her part, Sarah didn't quite know how to act either. Finally they hugged awkwardly, and then retreated to the conversation area.

"So _that's_ why you told me not to make those calls earlier," Bud told Sam. "You found her for me! Why didn't you just tell me? Not that it wasn't a wonderful surprise." He beamed at Sarah who sat on the couch next to Sam.

"I guess you didn't have a chance to tell him yet, huh Sam?" Al asked.

"I thought Sarah should speak for herself," Sam replied.

Sarah dipped her head nervously, then made firm eye contact with Bud. "I need to tell you something, Bud."

Sam scooted to the edge of the couch in preparation for standing up. "I'll just go make some coffee."

Sarah reached out to take his hand saying, "Don't go, Joe. Please stay here and help me tell the truth."

Sam nodded his acceptance and settled back on the couch. Perhaps it would be better if they weren't alone for this discussion.

"The truth is," Bud said, "that I missed you and I was afraid you'd been in that building when the bomb went off. And that I'm glad you're back, and that you're OK."

"Why did you miss me?" Sarah asked. In another setting the words might have seemed coquettish, but she was not smiling.

Now it was Bud's turn to be a bit uncomfortable. "Well, gosh, because I like you, Sarah. I thought you'd figured that out. Remember, we talked about how we seemed to feel connected right from the start."

"We are," Sarah said. "But not the way we thought."

"What do you mean?" asked Bud.

Sarah looked at Sam, who nodded encouragement for her to continue.

"I don't know how to say this, except to just say it. You're my brother, Bud," she said.

"Your brother!" Bud exclaimed. "But I'm an only child, and so are you."

"You're her _half_-brother," Sam put in.

"But your parents are both dead," Bud said with a confused look.

"I lied about my mother, Bud," she explained. "I'm sorry, I truly am. I didn't want anything more to do with her and it was just easier to tell people she'd died than to try to explain. And my mother lied about my father being dead."

"John wasn't really her father," Sam said. "You're both the children of Jess Luckinbill."

"Dad?" Bud exclaimed.

Sarah gave a detailed account of the circumstances of Jess' departure from Cottondale. "So you see, Mama couldn't admit to herself that her husband had left her so she always talked about him like he'd died. But he hadn't – he'd moved here and re-married and had another child."

"Think about it," she continued. "Your father was older when you were born. You told me yourself that he never talked about his past much. Didn't you ever wonder why? Didn't you ever wonder if he'd had a whole other family before he married your mother?"

Bud looked pensive as he mulled the questions over. After a moment he said, "You know, Mom did say something once that made me wonder. She'd found a picture of some children, looked to be in their teens. It'd been tucked away at the back of a drawer in Dad's workshop. She thought maybe it'd been there when they'd bought the house, except he was always getting tools outta that drawer. She said she didn't care, he treated us both real good and that's all that mattered."

"You don't still have it, do you?" Sarah asked excitedly.

"Not unless it's in one of those boxes of Dad's stuff," he replied. "We can look in a little while. They would've been your older brother and sisters – and mine, too." Now Bud sounded a little excited himself. "Wow! I've got _siblings_!"

"You've found a whole new family," Sam said.

Bud seemed to have thought of something else. "You did tell me about that old biddy who hinted that John wasn't your father. I guess she was right after all, but I wonder why she didn't just say so."

"Cottondale's a small town," she said. "Everybody knows everybody else's business – but you don't meddle with it. She probably thought I knew and wouldn't admit it, just like Mama."

"So how'd you figure it out?" Bud asked.

Sarah told them how she'd discovered the yearbook with the picture of Jess and Molly. The more she'd thought about it, the more she was afraid she knew what must've happened. And the more she didn't know what to do about it. She'd felt the attraction to Bud, but suddenly felt ashamed. She'd already lied to him about her mother's death and didn't know how to face him with this new possibility.

"So you see," she ended her explanation, "I felt like I just had to get away. I heard about the bomb on the radio, and drove by a few streets away to see. I wasn't thinking straight, I was so upset by all this. It occurred to me that people knew I was going to the credit union that morning and, oh! There was so much damage, so many people hurt. I guess I thought if I just disappeared they'd think I'd been killed in the explosion."

"Were you really going to run away without talking to me?" Bud asked with a hurt look on his face.

"It was a spur of the moment plan," Sam said. "She was distraught and suddenly this seemed like the answer."

Sarah ducked her head in discomfort. "I know it doesn't make much sense now, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time. I knew I had to go talk to Mama, but I really didn't think about what I'd do after that."

Now it was Sam's turn to explain how he'd found her car at the bus station and put it all together. He laughed at his idea that she'd planned for the car to be stolen; she'd told him that she was in such a hurry that she'd just plain forgotten to take the keys. Bud was astonished that Molly had refused to confess after all this time.

"I can see now why you wanted nothing to do with her," Bud said. "You must've been madder than a hornet when she wouldn't tell you anything, especially after you'd found those papers and figured out the truth. I can see why you high-tailed it outta there, but where were you going?"

"Anywhere!" Sarah replied. "I'd have calmed down after a couple days and come back. I mean, I couldn't just walk away from the job or give up the house – and I knew I'd have to tell you the truth eventually. I just needed time to think things through."

Sam and Al traded meaningful glances. "You didn't tell her what would've happened if she'd gotten to the highway and hitched a ride with a stranger, did you, Sam?"

"I saved her from that," Sam said to Al. Then to Bud, "I, uh, got her to see that she needed to face you sooner rather than later. Besides, I didn't think it was a good idea for her to be hitch-hiking; you never know what kind of nut-cases are out there."

Bud gave Sam a sharp look, but said nothing.

"And I'm glad he did!" Sarah said. "I was really afraid you'd be mad, Bud."

"Mad? No," he said. "Surprised, yes. Astounded is more like it. It's a little much to wrap my mind around, but I'll get used to it. It all makes sense, now. I have a sister! And I'm real happy to know you're safe."

"Could we maybe go look for that picture now?" Sarah asked. "So much has changed, I think I'd like to see if we can find the rest of the family."

"Sure, Sis," Bud said with a twinkle in his eye.

They stood up and headed for the spare bedroom, but Sam stayed put for the moment. "Do they find their siblings?" he asked Al.

Al had been busy calling up the information on the handlink, knowing Sam would want to hear how things worked out. "Yes, they do. It takes 'em awhile, they're scattered across the country, but they all meet for a happy reunion and they keep in close touch. Bud and Sarah each get married again, too."

Sam nodded. "That's great. What happens to Molly?"

"Molly apparently saw the consequences of her actions, she and Sarah forgive each other. They sell the old place in Cottondale and she spends the rest of her life with her daughter. Unfortunately she doesn't live too long, but she's finally happy."

"Does she get to see the rest of her children again?" Sam asked.

"Oh, yeah, she does. She helps Sarah and Bud look for them. In fact, the family reunion is held on Molly's 80th birthday. They got her a fancy cake with candles and everything, it was quite a bash for the old lady."

Bud came running back into the living room yelling, "Hey, Joe! Look here – we found the picture!"

Sarah followed him in. "It's got their names on the back, too. Well, first names, but it's a start."

Sam began to feel a familiar tingle run through his body. "I think it's time for me to go," he told them.

"You don't need to leave us alone," Sarah said. "You're an unofficial member of this new family."

"Oh no you don't!" Bud said with a wink at Sam. He turned to Sarah and said, "Joe's gonna need our help for awhile after his big adventure."

Al waved bye-bye to Sam.

As the blue aura began to spread over his body Sam said, "Say hello to Becky for me." And then he Leaped.

11


End file.
